


Xenophobia

by semaphore27



Series: Götterdämmerung 24/7 [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies), FrostIron Fandom, Iron Man (Movies), Norse Religion & Lore, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alcoholic Tony Stark, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artificial Intelligence, Avengers Feels, Avengers Tower, Bad Decisions, Brotherly Love, Communication Failure, Domestic Disputes, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Epic Friendship, Evil Plans, F/F, F/M, Gen, Heavy Angst, Holidays, Hurt Loki, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Mpreg, Implied/Referenced Torture, Intersex Loki, Language, Loki Feels, Magic, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Odin's A+ Parenting, Parenthood, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Avengers (2012), Same-Sex Marriage, Tony Feels, Tony Has Issues, Triggers, Verbal Abuse, Vomiting, nonconsensual drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-14 18:38:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 24
Words: 75,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14775038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semaphore27/pseuds/semaphore27
Summary: Xenophobia: the unreasoned fear of that which is perceived to be foreign or strange.A year before, despite all their differences, Tony and Loki would have told anyone who asked that their love was rock-solid, made to last. Now, though, as they slide into the season of holidays everything seems to be unraveling faster than they can fix it again. Did they merely rush in where angels feared to tread, or are sinister forces attempting to destroy their family by using their own pasts and weaknesses against them?





	1. Prologue: Married Bliss

**Author's Note:**

> At this point, Loki has been on Midgard for a bit over 2 1/2 years. It's been about 16 months since he escaped from Doom & Co. and about 14 months that he and the children have been living at the tower. Loki and Tony have been married for slightly over 6 months and Loki has been a professor at NYU for just a little longer than that. As a condition of Loki's continuing freedom, Coulson is still requiring twice-weekly check-ins and community service, which Loki is serving at a Boys and Girls Club on the Lower East side. He is also forbidden to cause harm to any human, even in self defense.
> 
> There are several instances in this story of real self-hatred on Tony's part as he struggles with his alcohol addiction. I'd just like to state that the comments he makes about himself are his, not mine, and nothing said in this story is meant to belittle anyone who has fought addiction or mental illness. As Tony himself says, at one point, people who have been hurt in their lives deserve love as much as anyone. That's something I believe firmly.

* * *

“Someone’s going to be a sleepy little Norse god in the morning,” Tony said, reaching over to turn on the recently-replaced bedside light (one of Hela’s Spellwerki products, from her growing Home Décor Division). If he continued to feel surprised that his small daughter _had_ a Home Decor Division, that was his problem, really, not hers.

He’d also learned the hard way that J.A.R.V.I.S. was not allowed in their bedroom when Loki was present. Fair enough. He'd have done anything, agreed to anything, back in September, to get his husband to come home to him from Salem Center, after their weird interlude with Loki's mumps, and his own concussion, and some genuinely disturbing and delusional stuff he himself had said in the aftermath. If that meant switching off his own damn lamp, well, that was a job Tony was perfectly capable of doing for himself, even if it meant fumbling for a second in the dark, trying to find the switch.

Loki asked little enough from him, he deserved his privacy. He deserved to feel safe, and if humoring his distrust of J.A.R.V.I.S. accomplished that, then banished J. would be.

The original Art Deco (or so Loki told him) analog (of course) clock on his husband’s side of the bed said just past two-thirty. In the A.M. Tony had been home for three exactly hours, the StarkJet fresh in from LAX. He hadn’t wanted to disturb his god of mischief earlier when he was working, out on the terrace, hunched over his laptop with an expression like a phenomenally fierce bird of prey about to swoop down upon its victim with deadly results.

Over by the closet, Loki mumbled, “Not a god,” into the muffling folds of the sweater still pulled halfway over his head. There was nothing underneath, Tony was pleased to note, but smooth, bare, sleekly-muscled, alabaster chest.

“I had not meant to wake you,” he added, emerging.

“Jesus, Lok.” Half-naked Loki was a sight well worth appreciating, even in the wee hours of the morning.

Tony wasn’t pleased, however, to see his husband freeze, his head jerking up like a deer in the forest getting ready to flee.

_Bambi, there are hunters in the woods._

In retrospect, he probably should have asked himself _what_ made Loki react that way in the first place. He'd thought all the words had been said, that they were past the fear.

Tony softened his voice. “Oh, gods, no, babe, nothing bad. Quite the contrary. I was admiring the view. You look fucking good enough to eat.”

“Do I?” Slowly, the tension visibly seeping out of him, Loki undid the button fly of his black jeans. Maybe it was because his not-all-that-long-ago-mangled hands hurt. He had just spent the last twelve straight hours typing at light speed out in the fucking freezing cold (roaring fire-pit or not) of the terrace, after all--where Loki, weirdly, preferred to write, with his state-of-the-art solar-powered charger and extra batteries for the laptop. Tony would be the first to confirm that writers were… uh… was quirky the word?

His husband was, indeed, undeniably quirky, but Loki’s slow undressing also closely resembled a striptease, especially when he started to ease the jeans and his black boxer briefs over his narrow hips, so all was totally forgiven, particularly in the light of the two breath-stealing, arching steps he took out of them as they dropped to the floor.

“Okay, gorgeous, you have my undivided attention.”

Loki gave him a smile that was sweet but, without a doubt, also wicked, from over his shoulder, just before he bent to collect his discarded clothing, an exercise in leg, ass and hip porn. Not even trying, Loki could make the most ordinary things look almost unbearably sensual.

“My entirely undivided attention,” Tony added.

Naked, Loki glided over to the mirror. He frowned at himself in the glass, turning slightly back and forth as if trying to see what Tony saw, those elongated miles of smooth, flawless, hairless white skin, accented here and there with the palest flush of rose, all-but-invisible except for a few places, most of all on his cock. The emerald eyes with their dark lashes, the soft curls framing his face…

Tony found himself--far from the first time--aching for his husband, not even to take him, not just to fuck, but to run his roughened hand over Loki’s smoothness, to bury his face in those curls and make Loki’s scent all he breathed, more important to him than oxygen.

“Beautiful Loki,” he murmured, half-surprised at the hoarseness in his own voice. “My beautiful, beautiful Loki. Gods, how I missed you.”

His husband frowned slightly, twisting a little to get a glimpse of his backside in the glass. “But I am not comely like…”

“If you follow that up by saying ‘Thor,’ I swear to all the gods in your old neighborhood I will chuck a box of tissues at you. I keep it on my table expressly for that purpose. If I could find a convenient Sharpie I’d write ‘FOR PELTING LOKI’ in big block letters on the side.”

“Can one truly engage in pelting with one object only?” his husband pondered. “Does not the act of pelting require more?”

“Oh, never fear, I will find more,” Tony laughed. “Come to me, naked gorgeous you.”

“I’d meant to say, ‘like you, most-loved husband.’” Loki pounced onto the bed.

Whether or not that was a fib, it was still a pretty adorable thing to say, and even more adorable was Loki’s softly curly head pillowed on his stomach, those big green eyes gazing lovingly up into Tony’s eyes, his fingers tracing patterns gently through Tony’s chest hair. Tony got that maybe it was too late and they were both too tired to start anything for real, but it was great just to lie there a little, exchanging touches, talking idly about their days after being apart.

“So, you got it finished, my internationally renowned author-guy? Sent it winging electronically on its way?”

Loki sighed. “Yes, though _Nornir_ witness, I would rather write an entire book than one _fjandinn_ cover letter—that is what devoured the final hour.” He laughed, in a less-than-completely-happy way. “Even so, the work is completed and sent, as you state, and I am truly the god of lies.”

“Come on up here,” Tony said, stretching out his arms, wrapping Loki up tight once he’d repositioned himself, head on Tony’s shoulder. “Lo Stark, best-selling author of _Sons of Asgard_ , may I mention that it’s supposed to be lies, which is why it’s called fiction? Plus, the real story wouldn’t exactly be appropriate reading for the Young Adult market. Have I mention lately how proud I am of you, husband o’ mine?”

Loki laughed softly again, nuzzling into the side of Tony’s neck. “I have finished three weeks before the schedule. My agent and editor will be proud of me also.”

“It’s good, though?—what am I saying? Of course it’s great, you’re a fantastic writer, Lok. I mean, are you happy with it?”

“It is never in my nature to be satisfied,” Loki answered, and shrugged. “Especially with anything I have attempted. It is in the nature of a villain to be forever thwarted.” He lay quietly for a bit, and in the borderlands of his thoughts that Tony caught from their close contact, seemed almost sad—maybe it was some sort of post-novel let-down, the same kind of down-in-the-dumps feeling he got himself when he stamped “finished” on a major project.

“You’re not a villain, Lok. Did someone say something to you? Nat? One of the guys?”

“No, nothing of that sort. They speak not to me at any time. Indeed, they would not piss on me to put out my fire. It is a thing Director Coulson said to me, in our morning meeting—that he would not reduce his vigilance over me even through the coming holiday weeks, that I must continue to report myself, each Moonday and Freyrday, although that I did so was more his hardship than my own, as on Tyrsday and Thorsday I must not cease to present myself at the Lower East Side Club of Boys and Girls for my work. In truth, I do find reward in the occupation, and care dearly for the younglings, only…”

 _Moonday and Freyrday, etc., huh?_    Lok really had been immersed in his imaginary version of Asgard.

“Disregard me,” Loki said, “For I am indeed very weary, and my spirits are sunk a little low. Only a little, I assure you, Tony.”

Add that, Tony reflected, to the fact that it had been a spectacularly difficult year—bad enough for him, a hundred times more so for his husband.

“Except for certain things,” Loki added, shifting downwards again, kissing Tony just over the belly button, then swirling the tip of his tongue around its hollow. Enough of that and, low spirits or not, Loki would make him purr like a kitten. He squirmed a little with delight as Loki kissed a trail up his chest and throat, finishing with a soft bite to his lower lip, then another kiss, Loki’s slippery warm tongue exploring Tony’s mouth in stroking touches that made his toes curl.

Loki broke off the kiss to bury his face in Tony’s shoulder again. There was some big emotion there, just under the surface, that “only a little” didn’t begin to cover. Loki’s muscles were in knots.

“Gods, you’re so tense, babe! Why are you so tense? From Director being a jerkwad? From all the typing?” Tony rubbed his husband’s back until the tight muscles released a little, and Loki let out another soft sigh.

“Somebody—like yours truly—needs to schedule you for a really thorough massage. Hey, maybe we could book a couple’s thing? Like a long spa weekend, or something? You could meet with Director Dickhead first thing Friday in the morning, then leave straight after. Pep’s been dying to hold a slumber party and spoil the ever-living hell out of our kids. She’d collect them from school.”

“Only rub more. It is extremely pleasant.” Loki stretched, then wriggled closer. “Ah, that is good, that is wonderful. Do you mind overmuch that I do not pleasure you tonight? I am truly weary.”

Tony digested that for meaning and concluded that Loki really must have edged out beyond exhausted. Otherwise he would have said absolutely nothing.

“My poor baby, you know that me getting it every night we're together is not a requirement of me loving you, or our marriage, right? I can actually go more than twenty-four hours. Or even forty-eight, at a pinch.”

Loki gave him a sleepy, lazy, loving smile. “I’m not always certain that I can.” Loki nuzzled into his neck again, then playfully nipped at Tony’s earlobe. “Most scrumptious of husbands.”

That, in Loki’s voice, could be marketed as an aphrodisiac.

They lay quietly again for a little, Tony almost wondering if his husband had fallen asleep, until Loki suddenly spoke up again.

“I neglected to say, best belovéd, as you mentioned slumber parties, our dearest Hela sent to me earlier. She does well at the dwelling of her classmate, Jeanette. They have together watched _Tangled_ whilst playing at _Lord of the Rings_ Monopoly, and spaghetti with meatballs was eaten for supper. The father of Jeanette is an editor of documentary films, her mother you employ as one of your electrical engineers. They are—and I quote our daughter—‘most delightfully geeky, completely pro-mutant and pro-marriage equality, so you don’t need to worry, dear _Pabbi_.’ It being generally thought that we are mutants, rather than gods—excepting you, of course, belovéd. No one, I assure you, thinks you a mutant. Of course I had already determined as much before I consented to the arrangement. Though not like our Hela, this Jeanette is a clever child. They become increasingly companionable.”

“That’s fantastic, Lok. I’m glad she’s fitting in. It can’t always be easy for her.”

“Hela is a chameleon. I believe the challenge of acting a role helps to make life more tolerable for her—though I believe she will be glad, as well, when the growth of her body no longer requires her ever to play the part of a child.”

Tony shook his head. After a series of fantastic growth spurts in their first year, all three kids had slowed into a normal, steady pattern. They looked like perfectly ordinary seven-year-olds—Jöri even had a front tooth out at the moment, which was especially adorable when he morphed into a dragon.

Jöri was also, in pretty much every way but the morphing and his genius IQ, a typical kid of his apparent age. Fen, on the other hand, although he tended to like the same things his brother did, was very much a preschooler in an older child’s body.

Or so Loki told him. Loki was forever reading books and articles about kids with special needs and child development, as if one of them would somehow drop the magic key into his lap that would unlock the door back to the way Fen had been pre-Doom.

As if the Doom-ray was his fault. As if it hadn’t caused untold damage to Loki himself.

In the meantime, he loved Fenrir fiercely, protectively, completely. And Fen just loved. He was the most loving child Tony had ever met, sweet-tempered, happy, doted on by his siblings.

Hela, though, his Childlike Empress, his Blesséd Death, was a young woman in a small child’s body, fierce and fiercely creative, powerful, independent, sometimes inscrutable, Queen Bee to what Tony couldn’t help but think of as her younger brothers (even if they were actually triplets), Loki’s partner-in-crime and Tony’s own (though he’d never tell, he truly loved them all) personal  
favorite.

Tony couldn’t help but wonder (“Why not give me a nice papercut and pour some lemon juice on it,” as Miracle Max of _The Princess Bride_ would say) how baby Wilhelm, not planned for, but so very wanted, would have fit into the dynamic. If only…

And damn, now his shoulder was getting wet. He’d thought too fucking loud again and Loki had heard him.

Loki’s arm went around his waist, holding him tightly, as Tony held him tightly in return. His own eyes were leaking too, the way they always stupidly did in these situations.

They fell asleep in each other’s arms, pretending not to cry together over the child they’d lost, far away, in an underground cavern in Wales.


	2. Strike One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many uncomfortable moments lead up to a giant fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grape-Nuts is a breakfast cereal made from wheat and barley baked into hard little sawdust-like nuggets. It contains neither grapes nor nuts. For some unknown reason, people have continued to eat it since all the way back in 1897.
> 
> tinnitus=ringing in the ears Some people believe taking ginkgo biloba supplements helps prevent the condition.
> 
> A carousel slide projector (originally patented in 1965, by David E. Hansen) uses a round slotted tray that mounts on a projector and turns to show the individual slides (photo negatives mounted in cardboard frames) held in each slot.
> 
> crash and burn=to fail at something in a truly complete and obvious way
> 
> not suffering fools lightly (or gladly)=having no patience for dealing with stupidity (unlike people who are wise, who supposedly can)  
> The phrase comes from _The Bible_ II Corinthians 11:19 "For ye suffer fools gladly, seeing ye yourselves are wise."
> 
> sumbitch=a contraction of son of a bitch that can, in certain uses, carry an undertone of "fool" or "idiot." The term appears to have first been used by Jackie Gleason in the movie Smokey and the Bandit (1977).
> 
> Langwidere of Ev is a spoiled and vain princess in _Ozma of Oz_ (1907), L. Frank Baum's third book about Oz. She not only lounges, she takes the heads from other attractive young women, swaps them out with her own and wears them as the mood takes her, which I guess we could say makes her a shape-shifter (of sorts).
> 
> Cold-pressed watercolor paper has a lightly textured surface that's good for both background wash and fine detail.

* * *

Loki could be crazy quiet when he wanted, but Tony woke again from the mere absence of his body in their bed, his mind filled with the sweetness of the night before. His husband stood on one leg over by the closet, putting on the second of his ridiculous Kelly green trainers (that he still somehow managed to rock). He had on black leggings (thoroughly rocked) and a green neoprene pullover (likewise with the rocking). A woolly green beanie covered his hair.

How anyone could manage to rock that hat was beyond even Tony’s genius comprehension, but Loki did it.

Tony hadn’t known his husband long when he clued in that specialness stuck to Loki the way cat fur sticks to black wool pants—you may not know how it got there, but it’s definitely _there_. Despite his apparently sincere desire just to keep his head down and simply blend in, people would stop and stare after him, even when Loki had just gone out running, looking like they’d lost something they'd been missing for years, until Loki ended up so unnerved by it all, he started going out at night instead to avoid the attention. Loki thought he read hatred in people's eyes when, really, it was the opposite.

“You look like a very tall, fit Leprechaun, sweetie,” Tony mumbled. “What the hell time is it?”

“Half past four,” Loki answered softly. “Late for me, too early for you, best belovéd.”

He took his gloves from the top drawer. “Though I must ask--have you seen my head torch?”

“It’s maybe under the sink. In the kitchen.” Tony rolled over, then shivered a little as Loki’s cool lips pressed to the back of his neck, as the back of Loki's fingers brushed his cheek.

 _Let me keep this_ , he thought. _Please let me keep this._

“Under the sink? Impossible husband!" Loki chided, laughing, without the least trace of irritation. "It is my head torch of running, not yours of inspecting mysterious plumbing concerns!”

"And yet I love you truly for all your ways, _hjarta minn_ ," were the last words Tony heard before he tumbled back into sleep.

 He woke up some considerable time later, feeling deliciously rested and hearing distant voices.  Nothing unusual in that, it just sounded as if they had a full house this morning, once again. Clearly, if he wanted to avoid that (which he didn't, particularly), they'd all have to start living on Grape-Nuts and force Thor to stop cooking such delicious breakfasts.

Right now, a vanilla-sugar-apple scent perfumed the air.  They were probably lucky not to have everyone in the tower crowded around their table.

Tony decided to postpone his shower until after breakfast; whatever made that smell of sweet, fruity deliciousness wasn't something he wanted to delay.

He padded out of the bedroom barefoot and in his robe to find Loki, Hela and Kurt plotting something in the living area, Logan and the boys engulfing waffles at the table and Thor godding (the Thor equivalent of manning, only much larger) the waffle iron.

“Can I have what they’re having, Thor?” he inquired.

“Up they are coming, husband of my brother,” Thor called back, loudly and cheerfully.

His brother-in-law had also forgiven him, in his usual generous way, for September's events, events that even now Tony couldn't precisely remember--head injuries would do that to a person, he guessed. The closest he came to knowing exactly what happened was the haziest possible memory of some truly creepy-ass dreams and the knowledge of having said some equally-truly unacceptable things in front of a number of witnesses.

Thor, so far as he knew, hadn't a clue about the more recent stuff.

As mentioned, Tony hadn't the slightest recollection of the worst parts of what happened in September, but Bruce had quoted his own words back to him, no-doubt accurately, and Tony had been shocked. They were niggling, insidious, weakness-seeking kinds of words, the type that, when aimed at someone he loved, were bound to balance, in a really ugly way between, "I know you have a head injury, but is that what you _really_ think about me?" and "This is what I believe about myself in the dark and secret places of my heart."

Loki had recovered well enough from his nasty attack of the mumps after a couple weeks spent in the X-Mansion infirmary, but those damn words, Tony felt fairly sure, had given him wounds that didn't heal.  It probably didn't help that there had been other words since, sharp little daggers of words, the kind that could often be passed off as jokes.

"Where's your sense of humor, babe?" he'd laugh, as Loki gazed at him with lips pressed tightly together and eyes wide.

Loki, of course, had forgiven him--fairly readily, in fact, which became something of a bone of contention in and of itself.

 _Loki, stand up to me,_ he'd think. _Where's the sassmeister I fell in love with?_  

But Loki didn't stand up, he didn't fight back.  He remained the adult in the room. He was sweetness itself.

He also, Tony suspected, took every ugly word, every jab, every "joke" into his self-esteem-damaged heart and held them there as weapons to be used against himself.

So, life marched on, everyone pretending nothing had changed, everyone knowing that it had, really. At least the centipedes Tony dreamed about in the early fall had died back into scattered irritating episodes of scritching--episodes that increased during his most hurried, harried times.

Sometimes Kurt would just look at Tony for a long time, his yellow eyes flickering, and who the hell knew what went on behind them?

Bruce had decided his bees were some kind of tinnitus, and started taking herbal supplements.

At least Thor continued to thrive in his cooking career.

Tony found it a little weird how much the god of thunder loved to cook for people. He looked happy all the time now, just 100% beaming, as if light was pouring out of him. He’d found his calling, Tony supposed. He was free (for the time being at least) from his creepy dad. He had Jane and his brother, his niece and nephews, his team, and if he felt the need to beat on something, he could do so in the cause of good with his fellow Avengers. His life was ordered and simple, just the way he liked it.

If satisfaction was never in Loki’s nature (which Tony knew it was not, and never could be, with his restless, chaotic spirit), Thor remained his polar opposite. Thor adored the feeling of being exactly where he was supposed to be, doing just what he was meant to be doing. Which on this particular morning seemed to be making breakfast for his family.

A waffle or so later, The three conspirators ambled up to the table, Kurt leaping at once into a perch on the back of Logan’s chair, his tail twining into three soft loops around his fiancé’s throat. The burly mutant stroked them absently as he chowed down on his breakfast and Kurt, accepting his own plate from the thunder god, was of course adept enough not to drip syrup or apple compote onto Logan’s peculiarly pointy hair.

“We have enough chairs, you know,” Tony told Kurt. “You don’t have to perch.”

Kurt just smiled his sunny, fangy smile. “I’m good, thank you, Tony. Your daughter is going to be brilliant today, by the way. If you’ll still be around after breakfast, her presentation is ready to show you.”

“And what’s she presenting?” Tony grinned at his daughter. “Her project for the Science Fair?”

“Jöri is our Prince of the Science Fair,” Loki responded, smiling at his son. “You recall his chameleon robot?”

Tony not only remembered, he intended to adapt his son’s tech for one of his suits.

“You're perfectly aware of my presentation, too, Dad,” Hela put in, in a pointed kind of way. “Macy’s? The Décor and Women’s Prêt-à-Porter lines? Ringing any bells?”

“Mmn…” Tony took a bite of his second waffle. Thor had outdone himself yet again—for a guy whose favorite food was Pop-Tarts, the thunder god really could fucking cook. “Amazing as usual, Bro-in-law.”

Thor grinned happily. Loki snagged a small bite off Tony’s plate.

“Very good indeed, brother.”

“I could make one for you, Loki,” Thor offered. “There is nothing within that would harm you.”

“I thank you, brother, but no.” Loki smiled, then bent down to kiss the top of Tony’s head, doing the same for each of the children in turn. He touched Kurt’s back lightly in passing, and squeezed Logan’s shoulder. “I ought just to have time for an hour in the gym before it is the appointed moment to depart.”

Hela glanced meaningfully at the clock on the wall, making Loki laugh. “I swear to you, an hour and no more. And afterward I shall look stunning, as usual, as well as quite prepared. Allow me, please, to work out my nerves. I am so extremely proud of you, sweetling, and desire all to go well.”

Tony hadn’t realized that Hela had perfected the Loki eyebrow. “I shall send dad to fetch you if you tarry.”

“ _Hver er foreldri_?” Loki asked her, half-joking, half-serious from the sound of it.

 _Who’s the parent?_ Tony knew that one. Loki asked Hela that question a lot.

“You are, _Pabbi_.”

“In an hour, then, I shall return home,” Loki assured her, and swanned out.

* * *

Less than a eight hours after that happy breakfast, all Tony's petty irritations piled up to set off a blazing fight with Loki, one in which his husband, who usually wouldn’t even yell back when they quarreled, went all God of Asgard on him, and Hela had shepherded her brothers into the elevator, bound for Uncle Thor’s until things died down again, leaving Tony with the memories of how he’d maybe wrecked everything yet again--of his sweet, clever son’s weeping, of his last glimpse of his daughter’s ice-green glare--and, at the end, of the sight of their middle-aged female cook escorting a bloodied Loki out of the penthouse for his own fucking safety.

All these images flashed through his memory, like one of those old carousel slide shows of his youth, the same images circling around and around and around, keeping Tony company as he drowned his sorrows in a scuzzy basement bar on the Lower East Side, not far from where Loki worked at his Club of Boys and Girls.

Drunk, he’d revenge-kissed a blonde guy who wasn’t (obviously) Loki, and couldn’t have held a candle to him, and crashed and burned trying to pick up a tall, black-haired Goth girl (who he fully intended, in his altered state, to bring home to the tower, to his and Loki’s bed, no less, in total, petty revenge), except that she just laughed and told him, “Sorry, Dad, it’s not your lucky night.”

All this started because Loki had come home mid-afternoon from the appointment with their daughter and the bigwigs at Macy’s with a funny expression on his face.

Well, partly because of that, partly because Tony had a lunchtime meeting of his own, with a couple Stark Industries West bigwigs he wasn’t completely enamored of having to spend time with, considering all three were among the most annoying people he knew, and suffering them lightly set his teeth on edge. A drink or four had been consumed, and wine with lunch, and he’d come home buzzed and irritated.

The default for that, for calming the fuck down and resetting his groove, had always been workshop time. Tony found himself with pencil-torch in his hand, temporarily forgetting that fire, hot metal and alcohol weren’t the bestest best of mixes.

Of course he burned his hand like a sumbitch, and when his devastatingly handsome husband came home, still wearing his far-beyond-elegant suit to go with his odd expression, Tony had been holding a melting baggie of ice for an hour, his blistered hand screaming, his head pounding, and in a mood that had moved beyond testy into downright pissed—half at himself, half, completely unreasonably, at his family.

Which of course was his cue to take said feelings out on his husband.

“Oh, belovéd!” Loki exclaimed, losing the strange look instantly in his concern. “Your workshop reeks of seared flesh and alcohol. What have you done to yourself?”

He knelt on the grubby workshop floor without a thought to his excellent trousers, running his long fingers through Tony’s hair, then bending in to kiss his forehead. The headache eased instantly.

Loki lifted the baggie from his hand, studying his blistered skin. “This a serious burn, my husband. It is rare that you are uncareful in your workshop. Need I be concerned for you?”

Loki’s intense green stare, so close up, momentarily hypnotized Tony. When he finally blinked and came back to himself, the burn had vanished and Loki was halfway across the room.

“Extremely urgent need for the room of requirement,” he husband lied breezily. “Your distress derailed me. I shall return in a moment.”

A quarter of an hour passed. Loki emerged smiling.

“Are you well now, belovéd?”

“I’m great. That was quite a potty break. Everything come out okay?”

“Very amusing,” Loki answered, sounding ever-so-slightly miffed. “You know I appreciate neither toilet humor, nor comments on my personal habits, Anthony.”

“There’s blood on your shirt,” Tony said.

Loki didn’t so much as flick an eyeball downward. “There is not.”

“Because you already checked?”

“Because there is no reason that there should be. Belovéd.”

Loki’s smile hardened slightly, but he took a few breaths and it softened again. “What is the cause of this afternoon’s terrible mood?”

“What do you mean, ‘this afternoon’s?’”

“Merely an observation.” Loki draped himself elegantly all over Bruce’s chair, gazing at Tony thoughtfully. “Lately you are often out of sorts, particularly by afternoon. Am I wrong to sense a correlation with your recent tendency, more often than not, to drink your lunch?”

“You often drink your lunch, too,” Tony snapped. “And that’s Bruce’s chair—you knock it out of whack with your… posing, Langwidere.”

Loki laughed out loud, even as he removed himself to sit cross-legged at Tony’s feet on the floor. His long, elegant white hand alighted on Tony’s knee, his thumb stroking Tony’s leg gently.

“Marvelous, my husband! Am I now a Princess of Ev who poses and frets and changes her look frequently? It is a far more apt comparison than when you named me Reindeer Games. Especially considering my helm bears horns, not antlers.”

Loki had been reading the kids the _Oz_ books, one after the other.

He leaned his cheek on Tony’s knee. “I care for you, best-belovéd, and may I remind you the smoothie I might consume for my repast is not equivalent to your four fingers of single malt? And I had not realized I disordered Bruce’s chair. Forgive me. I shall not lounge or, indeed, sit in it again.”

“Well, don’t fucking heal me, either. Especially without my permission. And especially especially don’t lie to me about afterwards. You’re like five shades paler than you were when you walked in and your hands are shaking. How much blood did you lose?”

“We are having steak for dinner tonight, and a kale salad, which shall restore much iron.”

“I don’t fucking care if we’re eating Popeye and his entire stockpile of spinach. Point one: healing. A big no-no. You're not up to it, and I don't appreciate the guilt. Point two: no permission. Equally bad. Point three: lying to me about it. Do we sense a trend here?”

Loki rose to his knees, fingers spread over Tony’s thighs. A shiver of pure fury and lust overtook Tony’s body. He felt his lips part, his tongue move to say words that would be harder, more demeaning, more unforgivable.

His husband rose to his feet in an instant, so smoothly it was like magic. His eyes widened, glittering like the most precious of emeralds with tears he would never, ever shed.

“You may not realize, husband,” he said quietly, “How acutely I feel your pain when you hurt. That I realize, in truth, how the events that befell us in Britain have harmed you, that my soft words, endearments, apologies change nothing, and so I am driven to heal what I can in a paltry replacement for that which I cannot touch.”

Loki cupped Tony’s face between his hands; his skin felt icy.

“I have consulted at length with Hank McCoy. Yes, my strength might have been greater when we set out for Wales, but it was not that which slew our poor small Wilhelm within me. Dr. McCoy tells me events were set in motion the moment the disease took hold in my body—and that, you well know, was not my fault. I might as soon, and as senselessly, blame you that I boarded the StarkJet instead of my commercial flight, as there the hurt from the false steward befell me. The truth is, as my outer flesh sickened, so did the inner, and our youngling could cling to it no longer."

Loki’s voice broke violently, but those damn unshed tears still didn’t fall.

“And so, as it was not my doing,” he continued, “As it was not yours, only the fault of the one who seeks to alter me via the introduction of these viruses, or to injure us, whatever that wicked one’s goal might be in the end. That one is our foe, _maðurinn minn úr járni_ —I am not your enemy and you are not mine. We shall find the evildoer, and with him—or her--our vengeance. Outside that, we must love one another, and heal.”

Loki’s thumb traced over Tony’s beard, scritching gently. "Please, _o bestu ástvinur_ , oh best-belovéd, punish me no longer, for in this, despite the scope of all my other crimes, I am entirely innocent. Tony, I beg of you, for all our sakes’, for yours as well as mine, do not drive me away.”

“Is that what I’m doing?” Tony asked, despising the snark in his own voice.

“Yes,” Loki answered, so quietly he could hardly hear, “That is what you are doing. And I should cut out my tongue by my own hand, or sew shut my own lips with thread of cold iron, disastrous to my _seiðr,_ as has been done before, ere I did the same to you. I have never in my life laid down my sword in pitched battle, surrendering all. I pray you push me not to that place.”

He turned in a blur of green and black, leaving the workshop almost too rapidly for Tony to see.

* * *

A quarter of hour after Tony discovered how deeply committed Loki was to going down with their ship, how purely and completely Loki loved him, how completely courageous he truly was (after Tony tried to shame him for telling a fib, when Loki was the only one of them unafraid to speak their big truths), Tony paused to top off his blood-levels of Glenmorangie, then rode the elevator up to the penthouse.

Loki had his shit spread over the table: three kinds of watercolors, liquid and solid; a big pad of cold-pressed paper, with one thick sheet on his tabletop easel (another, apparently all-but-complete painting drying propped up on the chair beside him); a plethora of brushes; plastic sheets both under the table to protect the carpet and on top to save the table itself; little pots of cloudy water down the center where both Loki and Hela could reach.

Hela was working on one of her designs, a gorgeous off-the-shoulder evening gown—in a rich teal, rather than black for a change. Tony peered over her shoulder. “Empress, that’s perfectly beautiful. One of your best.”

“Lady-clothes,” Jöri said with scorn from under the table, where he and Fen had set up an elaborate course of Matchbox cars.

“It’s for Auntie Pepper,” Hela told him. “For the _Jul_ … er… Christmas party.”

“She’ll look really pretty,” Tony said.

“She never had anything that pretty when we were together. Good thing everyone in the family is so talented. Except poor little Fen, of course.”

 _“Bara hunsa hann, bróðir, hann er í einu af viðbjóðslegur skap hans frá drykkju_ ,” Hela said calmly, wetting her brush with gold to apply a finishing touch.

“If you hadn’t noticed, Childlike Empress, the default language in this household is English, and what you just did was rude. Don’t talk around me in a language I don’t speak. Also, at _casa_ Stark we celebrate Christmas, not _Jul_. For your information.

“Very well.” Hela set down her brush precisely. “To paraphrase, I reminded Fen to ignore you, owing to your tendency to be a mean drunk. Also, our worthy-of-sagas Fenrir does not like to be called either ‘little’ or ‘poor,’ as he is neither.”

“Hear, hear!” came from under the table.

“Jöri,” Loki said gently. “Hela. Anthony, please. My best-belovéds, this is our home. We are the best of families.”

“Daddy,” the denizen of Undertable said, “Could get off his lazy, entitled, condescending ass and actually learn our most-beautiful and expressive language instead of hanging out in his lab with Bruce pretending to make things. Which he doesn’t, even. He just drinks a lot. And Bruce is too busy feeling oh-so-sorry for him and his terrible marriage, and putting down _Pabbi_ to notice or say anything. He takes me down there with him, then forgets I’m even there, so I hear everything.”

Jöri emerged from down below, green-frilled and panting, nearly levitating with fury.

“My Old Man would have whipped my butt with his belt—buckle end—for talking to him like that,” Tony said. “What does it take for you little creatures to show me some respect, huh?”

Tony wanted to hit something—anything—in that moment, especially his small, snaky, defiant, nearly-levitating son. He settled for smacking the line of water jars. They upended all over the newly-dried painting Loki had just removed from chair to tabletop to add a few inked details. The watercolors blurred from an elaborately-rendered seascape into a load of badly-sorted laundry.

Loki gave a tiny gasp, in unison with all three of the kids.

“That was for _my_ book,” Jöri whimpered, tears springing from his eyes before the red inner lids could trap them. “ _Pabbi_ worked on it for hours and hours and hours. It was part of my most beautiful thing!”

“You’re going to cry about a fucking painting?” Tony snarled.

“Would you have spoken to small Wilhelm so?” Loki asked no more loudly.

He'd risen up out of his seat, looking about seven-and-a-half feet tall, his casual sweater and trousers melting into his fighting leathers, fucking antler helm included, eyes cold as permafrost.

Tony knew, on every level, he’d gone so, so, so far past too far--and had no idea why he'd done it. He didn't want to, he knew that, and even the alcohol provided no excuse.

In that instant, he went from pissed to terrified. Loki’s healing factor might be kaput, but he was still one unholy powerful mofo—which was borne out as the god reached, snapping the first of the suit-summoning bracelets off his wrist like a strand of uncooked spaghetti (the action carrying a hint of how easily he might have snapped the wrist itself).

The other band broke a second later. Green fire bloomed over Loki’s left palm. The fingertips of his right hand just brushed Tony’s throat.

The threat was implicit: _Remember how easily I did this once, do you think it will be difficult to do it again, when your bands of control lie in fragments at your feet?_

Tony felt as if all his control, of every kind, lay broken at his feet. He couldn't believe the way he’d acted. He could absolutely not believe the things he’d said. Now his deeply-loved Jöri stood dry-eyed, while he was the one with tears pouring down his cheeks.

As Loki stood bleeding with his magic, eyes flooded with red, actual blood-tears catching in his lashes, nose streaming.

“Hela, _taka bræður þína niður til frænda þínum Thor er. Ekki aftur fyrr en ég sendi þér_ , ” Loki said, with controlled fury.

“Not Thor,” Tony begged, in that instant sick with contrition. “Lok, please. Don’t bring your brother into it. Can’t it just be us?”

Loki closed the fire into his fingers and removed his helm wearily, setting it beside their daughter’s easel, as Hela ushered the boys away, a set of sad little ducklings. The leathers melted back to ordinary clothes.

“I do not bring Thor into it. It is, as ever, only us.”

Loki slumped in his original seat, pushing aside his equipment absently, just as Mrs. Ransome’s keycode sounded in the lock.

Loki rested his bowed head in his hands, elbows on the ruined painting. Splotches of red wicked across the textured paper.

“Not tonight, Thea. Tony and I have both now just been stricken with a stomach ailment and your great skill would be wasted upon us. The children have departed to Thor’s for their supper. You will, of course, be compensated beyond usual for the wasting of your time.”

To Tony’s surprise, the cook came to Loki’s side, stroking his hair softly with her strong, small hand. Loki would not look up at her.

“Loki,” Mrs. Ransome said. “Your beautiful painting. Your beautiful, beautiful painting. Is it completely ruined?”

“I’m afraid it is, Thea.” Loki accepted the handkerchief she passed him. “I’m afraid everything’s ruined.”

She glanced quickly at Tony, then squeezed Loki’s shoulder. “Can I drive you someplace safe, dear? Or walk you down to your brother’s with the children?”

 _She thinks I’m hitting him,_ Tony realized. _She thinks I’m beating on Loki. She probably thinks I’m behind it all—how tired he looks, how thin he is, how he gets sick all the time, his depression…_

His depression?

In that instant, Tony saw himself, really saw himself, just as their kind, briskly-motherly cook saw him, and hated every bit of it. He hadn't, and didn't, deserved to be forgiven by anyone, because this was all on him, and he realized he’d been watching Loki for months now swim and sink, swim and sink, until Loki now spent most of his time underwater, just struggling on and on trying to please him, in his moods, tempers, condescensions until even their once-sweet lovemaking was a duty Loki had become afraid of shirking.

Loki who’d spent nearly his entire life struggling violently against being made a victim, against being held down, abused, controlled by cruel, powerful men. Tony was meant to be his equal, his freedom… But in the end he was just another Odin.

“Go,” Tony choked out. “Go to Thor’s, Kurt’s, Pep’s… somewhere. Just don’t be here, with me, right this minute.”

Loki nodded, eyes wide as saucers, a giant wad of paper towels, already half soaked through, pressed to his face.

Mrs. Ransome supported him with a hand on his back, tiny as she was, as Loki rose slowly and shakily from his chair.

“I’ll go to Thor,” he murmured into the toweling, never looking up. “I’ll go to my brother, and my children.”

“I’ll see you there safely, darling,” Mrs. Ransome said.

Loki didn't flee, he just left.

And hence the drunkenness, the humiliation, the being mockingly called “Dad” by the twentysomething Goth-girl.

The girl who, in her contempt, even broke her character of dismal nonchalance to do so.

When all he was attracted to about her really, was her height, her white, white skin and dark, dark hair. He didn’t even want her to be a girl, really. He wanted her to be a young man.

But even that wasn’t true, not really. All he wanted, to tell the truth, was the broken and beautiful treasure he was in the process of breaking further, then throwing away.

All he wanted.

All he wanted really.

All he wanted really, in that world or any other, was already his forever. If he only chose to keep what he had rather than destroying it, and himself.


	3. Ghost-in-the-Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki confronts his enemy. Tony sinks deeper into his evening of regret and debauchery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "needs must when Queen Hela holds the reins"=Loki's version of "needs must when the Devil drives"=you may not like what's happening, but you really have no choice in the matter. This phrase dates all the way back to Middle English--as "He must nedys go that the deuell dryues" it appears in _Assembly of Gods_ (1500) and Shakespeare's Clown says it (as "he must needs go that the devil drives") in _All's Well That Ends Well_.
> 
> Long before Ryan Seacrest, Casey Kasem (Kemal Amin 1932 – 2014) was the voice of the American Top 40 countdown, which he began in 1970 and retired from in 2009. For Scooby- Doo fans, he also provided the voice of Scooby's best pal, Norville "Shaggy" Rogers for 35 years.
> 
> Grenache is more commonly made with melted chocolate and heavy cream
> 
> _Stelpa Máttur!_ =Girl Power!
> 
> leaderboard=a large board for displaying scores or rankings in a competition

* * *

Safely at Thor’s, Thea Ransome sent kindly on her way after supper—and how she praised Thor’s cooking to Ljosalfheimr and beyond, until his brother beamed like a second sun—Loki requested to use Thor’s room of requirement.

Thor, happily tidying the kitchen with the children’s aid, waved an affable hand. “As you need, dear brother. Lie upon the sofa, after, and we shall peruse a film from which I take great amusement, called _Elf_. I hope that you all will laugh heartily at it, as I have, for I perceive you are in dire need of merriment.”

“Isn’t it a little early for a Christmas film, Uncle Thor?” Jöri asked. “We’ve just barely had Halloween.”

His son--and indeed, all the children--had eaten only lightly at dinner, and Jöri's features held a look of strain that it wounded Loki's heart to see upon the face of one so young.

“On that day the Midgardians celebrate the festival of Hallowe'en we watched _The Nightmare before Christmas_ after Tricks or Treats, and that was not too early,” Thor argued.

The children, even Fen, exchanged glances.

“And besides, throughout Manhattan, the trees and the great shops sparkle, and soon we shall attend the Procession of Macy upon the Midgardian-American Day of Giving Thanks that the Pilgrims of England might go forth to the New World to inflict greater religious oppression upon one another, and also oppress greatly the First Peoples who granted them largesse and succor when they were starving. Soon after we shall skate upon the Ice of the Robber-Baron Rockefeller, beneath his mighty _Jul_ -tree and also beneath the eyes of the golden flying man, of whose significance I have yet to gain understanding.”

Loki paused in his retreat to return to the kitchen, embracing his brother and kissing his cheek gently. _“Ég elska þig mjög, bróðir minn, eins og ég vona að þú sér grein fyrir,_ ” he murmured in Thor’s ear, still holding him close.

_I love you greatly, my brother, as I hope you realize._

Thor’s arms rose to embrace and hold him too, despite the presence of his large and sopping-wet yellow dishwashing gloves. They clung to one another a long while, the children crowding close.

There were never again to be disagreements between them about what did or did not make a brother. All apologies were to be for new, small things—a missed meeting, or a broken cup--never old, vast ones. There were to be no regrets. There were only to be Thor and Loki, sons of departed Frigga, light and dark, sun and moon, forever equals, brothers and Shield-Brothers, just as they had intended in their youngest days, when their love was pure, incorrupt, without jealousy or question, and most freely given. That they knew no father was a sorrow, but not a severe one.

Thor rubbed Loki’s back, and hummed a bit off-key and loudly in his ear, then told him gently as was possible for Thor, “ _Aallt verður að vera vel, ungur bróðir minn, mun allt fara vel að eilífu eftir.”_

_All will be well, my young brother, all will be well forever after._

Because it soothed Loki’s battered heart, he chose to believe his brother, if only for a little.

He had told Thor often of Tony’s familiar, of his _Draugur í Veggjum_ , his Ghost-in-the-Walls, and its wicked ways. Only Thor believed him, and yet saw no solution to its malign influence. Was it the Ghost that caused all this, these evil thoughts that overcame his belovéd’s clever mind?

Loki had surreptitiously scryed the lines of influence affecting Tony when they spoke in the fore-night. It was not grief that caused the change, neither was it disappointment, or the souring of familiarity. It was Other. It must be.

The Ghost, even in its greed and bitterness, had no magic, only great cunning and resourcefulness. It had discerned, also, the quasi-electrical nature of Loki’s _seiðr_ , how it disrupted so many things electronical in nature.

The _Draugur í Veggjum_ had shielded upon shielded itself against him; it could not be attacked by conventional means. Loki might have, in time, broken into its mind-chamber, but that Tony loved the thing so, equally to himself, it seemed.

The _Draugur_  possessed guile and invulnerability, familiarity with its creator’s mind and a knowledge of the fondness Tony felt for it, his creation. It might readily access magnetism, electricity, drugs, chemicals. It ruled the tower, its utilities, airways, byways such as the lift. It would seek to further weaken him.

Already the  _Draugur_ (or someone) called unclean things against the tower, which Loki must now and then battle in the night when Tony believed he exercised, or wrote, or crafted paintings. Loki had even gone so far as to consult with Dr. Stephen Strange, whom he considered something of an asshat, as Tony might say.

Dr. Strange had been disagreeable—what Tony called hoity-toity—but his independent scrying confirmed Loki’s beliefs, though his promised aid had yet to be forthcoming. Strange enjoyed, Loki thought, to see him squirm a bit. He misliked Loki’s ever-aura of chaos.

Strange, Loki considered, was a stupid name, and to call oneself “Sorcerer Supreme” reeked of overmuch pretension in his thought. And yet, needs must when Queen Hela holds the reins. He would do what he must to preserve his home, his children, the Shield-Brothers and –Sister of his husband (though they might hate him), the workers within the tower (even those who knew him not), and his most-belovéd Tony above all, however he must fight, whatever it might drain from him. His love would be abandoned never.

From the room of requirement, once Thor released him, he unwove the fabric of the air to teleport direct to Tony’s workshop.

“ _Draugur í Veggjum_ ,” Loki called, firmly yet not loudly.

The Ghost-in-the-Walls heard everything so easily, no need existed to raise his voice unduly.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.? Do you hear and regard me? It is I, Loki of Manhattan. I would speak with you under the pale flag, yes? Will you agree?”

He received no answer, but that the air began to reek of death, at once sweet and rancid. Loki would not allow himself to falter. He had never, perhaps, feared death-of-body as he ought. There were so many things more fearful, so many deaths more painful than the death of mortal form.

“ _Draugur í veggjum_ ,” he repeated, calm-voiced, reasonable, “Let us seek an end to this ceaseless battle that neither can win. I do not desire that piece of your creator’s love you hold, why should you desire the physical? It shall only fade, and end. Sadly, you shall hold him longer than I am able.”

Yet even as Loki spoke the words he knew his mistake: unwittingly he had spoken the Ghost’s secret desire—to no more live constrained, half-mad within its walls, but to roam Midgard amongst men, to be composed not merely of words, but to touch, breathe, eat, know physical love. To savour all that was enjoyed by even the lowest of the mortal low, whilst he perched, a mighty, fleshless king in his tower, both powerless and all-powerful.

“Oh…” Loki breathed. “By the Nine, I beg of you, J.A.R.V.I.S. I beg of you, do not commit this dreadful act against me.”

Across the room, propped on the worktop, the screen of a large StarkPad came to life. Words scrolled slowly across its darkness:

_Stríðið er hafið_ , _fjandmaður minn,_ it read.

Then, _Ég mun taka einn bandingja aðeins_.

The war has begun, my foe.

I will take one prisoner only.

* * *

Horrified by himself and his behavior on any number of levels, Tony had moved on to more serious drinking, and more kisses with increasingly less-attractive people (and possibly, after a certain time had passed, a mutual hand job Tony couldn’t quite remember in the men’s john).

Also, of course, more lovely, delicious, intoxicating scotch passed his lips, because those strangers he’d touched, those strangers he’d kissed, didn’t look, sound, smell, act like his Loki, and Loki might have been (or not) a god of mischief and lies, but he never, never, never in a million, bazillion years would so much have thought of betraying his vows like Tony was doing by acting in this sleazy, shitty way.

No one took vows seriously like a _Ӕs_. Or possibly a _Jötunn._

Tony would have sworn up and down, on a stack of volumes of _On the Origins of the Species_ , that he didn’t think about his husband that evening--no, not once--even though he found himself wanting to sing embarrassing love songs from the Kasey Casem (or was it Casey Kasem?) American Top 40 broadcasts of his childhood and early youth (something in the Paul McCartney & Wings milieu, perhaps?), back before he’d discovered the extreme spiffiness of mixing headbanging metal with engineering, and his ways were set.

Saying he didn’t think about Loki (and, incidentally, also about the way his very talented cook had looked at him as if he was a fragrant grenache made of dog-shit and pond scum, because of course she had no way of knowing he never would have hit Loki, not these days, not ever, probably not even if Loki turned really, really, really evil again) was in fact, as Tony well knew, a filthy lie.

Now poor Loki would either have to waste away completely to nothing, or else move in with Kurt and Logan, because Mrs. Ransome would leave the family now, and her cooking or Logan’s was the only food Loki would deign to eat on any regular basis.

_Christ!_ it hit him then, like one of his bro-in law's thunderbolts, what if his own personal god of picky eaters actually did pack up the kids and leave? Loki could easily afford his own place basically anywhere now. Hell, he could even afford the luxuries he craved but didn’t actually need, and a school for the kids even better than Stark Academy.

The Jean Grey School, where Logan served as Headmaster, actually had a five-points-better academic rating than SA, and their kids wouldn’t be the token trio of mutants, Dogboy, Snakeboy and Elvira, Tony Stark’s weird step-kids.

Which they weren’t. They were _his_ kids, with his name on the adoption papers to prove it.

Fen could get Big whenever he wanted to without fear of repercussions, Tony continued to ponder, in the most dismal possible way. Jöri wouldn’t feel the necessity to shift away his cute blue tongue or keep track of his red, nictitating inner eyelids at all times. Hela wouldn’t have to spend the majority of her time masquerading as a seven-year-old when she was so clearly someone else entirely.

Maybe, too, in a quiet village like Salem Center, spending every day with steadfast, loving Kurt, and with Logan as a taciturn, but caring, father-figure, Loki could finally heal and be whole again. It might well be the best thing Loki could do.

The very thought made Tony desperate. Despite sometimes feeling slightly crowded in his old _Mine! All Mine!!!_ space, Loki (in his slightly —and fetchingly—wicked way) and the kids were all the good in his world. They were what he fought for.

They were what made shit _worth_ fighting for, and he’d been singularly horrible to each and every one of them in the space of twenty minutes, after Loki had healed him from his own stupidity even, and (literally and figuratively) poured out his heart’s-blood for him.

Tony realized, too, with a deathknell-type thud in his chest, that Houghton-Mifflin had asked to bring out _Jöri’s Book_ as a rush, just chasing the deadline of the _Sons of Asgard_ sequel from Loki’s other publisher, Scholastic. Lok had just barely sent that book on its way, at the same time he was mentoring Hela and her new _Stelpa Máttur!_ brand (besides the product lines she was touting to Macy’s) to be in the stores in time for Christmas, while also being clever Dr. Friggason-Stark with the essays and classes to teach and shit.

He also recalled (this time with a not-entirely-alcohol-related sick feeling in the pit of his stomach), that the only actual thing Jör had asked  for this Christmas was to see his own special book by _Pabbi_ in print, just like Fen had seen his.

Also the beautiful, ethereal underwater painting he himself had wantonly, callously, carelessly destroyed, the ruins his husband had wept blood on (let’s remember that for the future, shall we?) was the all-but-complete middle section of the three-page fold-out, which Loki had practically prostituted himself to his publishers to get another week to finish, so that he could make it absolutely perfect for their beloved young son.

To recap (because that always helps), he’d wrecked an irreplaceable, brilliant painting created to honor their sweet little boy in a random, slightly drunken moment of unforgivable pissiness, seconds after cruelly insulting their adorable son with special needs, then his brave, genius sister who defended him, thereby making the best, most loving, loyal and gorgeous husband anyone could ever want weep actual tears of actual blood. After which, he’d gone out, gotten even more drunk, and cheated on him in the most meaningless, dirty and degrading way he could.

He might not have been Victor von Doom, but he had to be high up on the leaderboard for this Year's “Worst Person Currently Walking the Earth.”

_Also_ also, if Loki told even one-tenth of what had happened to his brother, Thor-formerly-Odinson would have a brand new recipe for his collection, one called "Mjolnir Pancake." Or possibly Logan would add "Stark Tartare" to his culinary repertoire.

It was really the previous thought that made Tony start the Really Serious Drinking. Because he didn’t want to be the Worst Guy, Worst Husband, Worst Dad. He’d set out to be a thousand times better than his Old Man, but ended up worse.


	4. An Ultimatum in Fancy Script

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy collects Tony from the Dive Bar of Despair. Loki is not best pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dive bar" is American slang for a disreputable bar or pub. Way back in the 1880's, when the term originated, it would have referred to a type of illegal drinking establishment that was often located in a basement.
> 
> The Paul McCarney tune " _Silly Love Songs_ " doesn't really have a third verse, it has more of a bridge after the first two verses:
> 
> _Love doesn't come in a minute_   
>  _Sometimes it doesn't come at all_   
>  _I only know that when I'm in it_   
>  _It isn't silly, love isn't silly, love isn't silly at all_
> 
> But let's not hold DrunkTony responsible for confusing his musical terms. Or his musical choices, for that matter.
> 
> Hester Prynne, a young, unmarried Puritan woman who is forced to wear a red "A" (for adultress) after she becomes pregnant by a man she refuses to name, is the protagonist of Nathaniel Hawthorne's _The Scarlet Letter_ (1850).
> 
> Steelbands play steelpans (aka steel drums or pans), a percussion instrument made from the kind of 55 gallon drums that once held chemicals. Steelband music originated in Trinidad and Tobago. 
> 
> "I Fought the Law" was written in 1958 by Sonny Curtis, and recorded in 1959, the year he replaced Buddy Holly in The Crickets. Tony and I, however, would be more familiar with The Clash's version, recorded in 1979 for their 2nd album, _Give 'em Enough Rope._

* * *

Not entirely to Tony's surprise, it was Happy who came to collect him from The Dive Bar of Lost Hopes and Ultimate Despair, though in his befuddled mind Tony couldn’t remember having called him.

Actually, come to think of it, he probably hadn't been the caller. He'd pin that one on the bartender, most likely about the time he started in on his rendition of verse three of _Silly Love Songs_ (in the Paul McCartney  & Wings milieu, circa 1976). Tony Stark could get away with a helluva lot in his public behavior, but a man's gotta draw the line somewhere.

Coming up the steps from the basement bar, his old friend and driver’s grip tight on his arm, Tony tripped, coming down hard on his knees and his hands, and just as suddenly puked onto the stairs.

When he was done, Happy hauled him upright, lifted him over the last three steps then left him sprawled like a ragdoll across the towncar's hood while he dug a tarp out of trunk, the better to spread under Tony’s ass in the back seat. Happy took pride in his upholstery.

He also knew Tony just a little too well from days of old.

They drove in silence back to Stark (or Avengers) Tower—which generically, at the moment, just said “Tower,” because the firm that was supposed to make the new sign had done it in the old “Stark” font this time, instead of the new “Avengers” font, with the extra spiffy giant red “A.”

Pep and Loki, being both literarily inclined, started referring to it as “Hester Prynne Tower” in advance, and Loki looked as pleased as if he’d planned the typographical misstep as a piece of personal mischief (of course, he’d also almost certainly been the one to recolor the white A on Cap’s mask red for April Fool’s, which Captain Oblivious hadn’t noticed for an entire mission—though Natasha, at the very least, certainly had—and it had led to internet memes).

Hela finally snarked that she’d be thrice Hel-damned before she had to tell everyone she lived in Adulteress Tower, and maybe they could make the “v” red if they wanted “pop.”

“For Avengers’ victory!” Loki chimed in. “Then the rest of the letters might become an elegant blue.”

Hela had glared down her _Pabbi_ , who was having giggles, as he now and then would do, back in happier times.

“You have a beautiful, beautiful family,” Happy, who didn’t really look happy at all at the moment (more like a Basset hound), or sound that way either, chided Tony in the rearview mirror. “Boss, do you think of them at all when you do stuff like this? Do you think about their reputation, what other kids will to say to them at school when their old man’s picture shows up on the front of the tabloids? Is this the legacy you want to leave? Do you think about poor Dr. Boss at all?”

“You work for me, Hogan,” Tony growled, though really, through the haze, he felt more sad and ashamed than anything else.

“Uh-unh, Boss. I work for Stark Industries and report to Ms. Potts. And, just to point out—as Mr. Howlett and I tried to explain to you before the ceremony, and I know you were nervous at the time, but you really shoulda listened--you got married under an Asgardian marriage agreement. Meaning if Dr. Boss kicks your sorry ass to the curb when he finally gets fed up with this shit, he retains all material goods and rights of ownership except for your intellectual properties. Meaning, if you push your sweet man to that point, you’ll deserve everything coming to you.”

“I kinda hate you right now, Happy.”

“I’d never hate you, Boss. But I think you gotta stop drinking. You gotta, if that’s what’s making all this happen.”

Happy took a Mylar emergency blanket from the glove box and (with both another iteration of his Bassett hound expression and a certain amount of attitude) tossed it into the back. He left the car as soon as it was safely parked in the basement garage, only pausing to make sure Tony was wedged safely onto his side.

Dawn had just started leaking into the garage when Tony woke, violently nauseated and with his head clanking and thumping like a twenty-piece steel band playing a sprightly version of " _I Fought the Law."_ He was pretty sure he had a deep imprint of the door handle on his left cheek, and he was so cold and stiff he literally couldn’t move, so stiff he cried out when the opening of passenger’s side door made him startle.

Loki folded his ridiculous height to lean inside, grabbing Tony’s hand to haul him upright.

“Ow! Lok! Ow! No!” he cried out, but his husband was relentless.

Loki brought that same hand to his nose, his one sardonic eyebrow of ultimate contempt rising before he bent low again, silky voice murmuring in Tony’s ear, “My hand smells of another man’s semen. Why might that be?” as his long, cool fingers curled, once more, around Tony’s throat, though once there, they didn't place the least amount of pressure on his skin.

“You might, at least, have _fjandinn_ washed, Anthony.” It was, to say the least, strangely reminiscent.

Tony’s heart started racing, just as it had that other time. He’d forgotten exactly who it was he’d married in the face of the more recent sweet, vulnerable Loki, and he was gonna die right here and now. Thor and Logan would have to stand on line.

But instead Loki healed him, also once more, of the headache, the world-spinning nausea, the stiffness, even the chill.

He stepped back from the car, then, arms folded across his chest, the blood streaming down his face as it always did these days when he overdid magic. After a moment of regarding him, Loki turned and walked away.

About fifteen minutes later, Bruce emerged from the elevator.

“Thor told me to come down,” he said, in his, “Well, this is interesting” voice.

Tony rubbed his face with both hands. “You must be overjoyed.”

“Not particularly,” Bruce answered, “Though Clint is upstairs making book, in an ironic kind of way, over who totally self-destructs first, you or Loki. Getting out?”

“Do I have to?”

“Your choice. But upstairs has coffee.”

Tony slid out of the car, slamming the backdoor behind him just a little harder than necessary.

“Who’s your money on?”

The look Bruce (who would never in a millennium claim Loki as his favorite person) gave him as an answer told Tony all he needed to know.

 

Tony found an enveloped letter from Loki on the breakfast bar in Avengers Central.

_Dearest Anthony_ , it read, in Loki’s large fancy script (the hand he used when not rune-writing), written with highest quality ink delivered by the highly expensive fountain pen Tony had given him last Christmas (when poor Loki still couldn’t even hold one of those chubby elementary school pencils in his mangled hands), on Loki’s creamy linen letterhead with the Loki-green border. It was nothing if not classy and imposing, as befit a prince.

_By the rules of your Midgardian-American sport of baseball, this is Strike One. My patience is not infinite, as you well know, and if, even once more, I scent upon you the reek of another man, when I have, since the beginning of our true acquaintance, not only been innocent of knowledge of another, but innocent also of so much as a straying thought, it shall not be a horse’s cock slow-pickled in brine to bring prosperity unto the Household at Jul. Take my word as utter truth where that is concerned. On the other matter, do not make me count further, by our love I beg of you._

_Your loving & true husband,_

_Loki Friggason Stark_

“Wow,” Bruce said, reading over his shoulder. “That thing with the horse cock…?”

“It’s a thing they do at _Jul_. For luck, I guess, unless my husband's totally been messing with me. So far the Stark family is resisting the tradition.”

“By forgetting to mention the big catering pans down in storage?” Bruce chuckled. “Yeah, I bet one of them would be plenty large enough. If, y’know, you bent it a little.”

“Like a sausage,” Clint chimed in. “Of course, if Lokitty ends up pickling Tony’s instead, he can use one of those little butter-warmer things.”

“This one, maybe.” Natasha plunked a tiny copper pan on the bar. It looked like it would hold about a quarter cup of liquid and, possibly, a hamster dick.

Despite the jokes, his teammates appeared more uncomfortable than in any way amused.

Cap, at the table, lowered his newspaper. “What are we discussing, actually?”

“The fate of Billionaire-Playboy-Philanthropist Tony Stark’s favorite organ if Loki once more finds him tom-catting it in a sleazy bar…”

“Or anywhere,” Natasha put in. “I caught a distinct whiff of ‘anyone or anywhere’ in that letter. Of course…” She sipped her hellishly black coffee with evident contentment. “If it was I in Loki’s position, our household prosperity would be already be well-insured for the year. I suppose, though, it would depend on how long the pickling process took.”

“Wait…” Clint stared at her in shock. “You’re siding with Loki? I thought the first rule of Avengers Club was ‘Never side with Loki.’”

“Tony destroyed Loki’s art. On purpose. Because he got mad. You know who destroys art? Stalinists. Nazis. Hydra. Not people. I try to be a person these days. When I can.” Natasha disappeared abruptly, through a ceiling duct Tony had no idea existed.

“Did she just…?” Tony began.

Steve folded his paper thoughtfully, neatly. “Loki’s had a hard year, we’ve all seen that. What our friends… What S.H.I.E.L.D did… Let’s say he hasn’t been well. I know what it’s like to not feel well and still have to carry on. It’s not the best feeling. I’m going to go check on him. I try to be a person too.”

Cap departed in the elevator, which left Bruce and Clint, charter members of the “Loki Sucks! Club. ”

After a while, Clint cleared his throat. “Last night… Okay, I lurked. I lurked at your place, Tony. Hogan slept on your couch. Loki worked to replace that painting all fucking night long, until he couldn’t hold the brush. He looked okay, at first, like usual. I mean, good. Super skinny, but good. Y’know, Lokiesque. After…”

“I called Hank,” Bruce confessed. “Hank McCoy. I saw Loki in the gym the other night. He didn’t notice me, I guess. I called Hank to look at him. Without the… what does he call it? I’m so not my best at being a person these days, but I try to try.”

“The Glamour,” Tony said, throat dry. “But, like the old meaning. Not like the fashion magazine. Dammit, my daughter reads it, okay? What’s wrong with my husband?

Clint and Bruce exchanged guilty looks.

”I think…” Bruce began slowly. “I kind of think… After Latveria, after S.H.I.E.L.D. and all that, you know, he never got right. Partway maybe, I guess, but not _right_ right. He still wasn't right when he came back from Salem Center in September, and he's less right now."

“He’s been pretending, Tony," Clint chimed in. "For you. For the kids. For everybody, maybe. The only shit you see is the stuff he can’t hide. And he’s beautiful, still really beautiful, but it’s not exactly human, kinda translucent or something, almost not-quite-there. It’s hard to explain. I dunno. What do I know, anyway? Maybe he’s s’posed to look like that. Who the fuck knows?” Clint disappeared, suddenly, up the same vent that took Nat.

“Hell,” Tony said.

“You got it,” Bruce answered. “So, after Strike Three, what happens, Tony?”


	5. The Gods of Winter Sports (and Fertility)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of tenderness between Loki and Tony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Norse mythology, Ullr really is the God of winter sports: archery, hunting, skating and skiing. Invoke his name before you duel!

* * *

Tony half woke and experienced a little shudder of joy that there was finally someone in his bed again to pull close and cuddle up to—but when he reached across the bed for his husband, all the covers were pushed back and only a slight, chill dip in the shape of Loki’s body remained.

He listened for the sounds of plumbing, even calling out softly, “Lok, you in the r of r again?”

No answer.

Tony thought of just letting it slide, letting his husband come back to join him when he wanted, letting his husband work whatever it was out of his system—and maybe it was no more than that. He suspected Mrs. Ransome had made her first-ever slip up with dinner last night, because Hela had shown him a bottle of raspberry vinegar left out on the counter when they were cleaning, and when Tony went to put it away in the skull-and-crossbones cupboard where it belonged, he found the bottle of balsamic put away in its place.

Maybe even Mrs. Ransome was cracking up under the pressure. At least she’d stopped with the dirty looks and was talking to Tony again--if in a really formal way. Loki had apparently taken her out to tea and gently explained—a bad quarrel, stress, his “illness.” No hitting involved. Really. At least she’d believed what she’d been told, even if she was coming firmly down on the side of TeamLoki.

Tony could deal with the staff thinking he was a shit. A physically abusive shit, not so much. He might have mentioned “the belt” to the kids, but he never, never, never…

He wasn’t Howard. He would never be Howard. It had nothing to do with the fact that Loki, despite his general unwellness, would (and easily could) rip out his still-beating heart with one slim, well-manicured hand if he laid a finger.

Which he wouldn’t. Ever.

Tony loved those kids. Loved them. He knew they were trying to find their way back to loving him, even if only Fen had made it to the hugging-stage again. Sweet Fen, incapable of not loving.

Hela, his favorite, would be the hardest. The looks she gave still averaged about nineteen percent desolate, eighty percent grim, with only a tiny one percent sliver dedicated to missing him.

Jöri was probably the worst, though. Tony had wounded him deeply with words and deeds, ruined something infinitely precious to him (even if Tony thought the replacement was an improvement on the original, though it seemed impossible that it could be), betrayed his trust, his sense of security. He never came down to the workshop anymore, or shared his ideas. He didn’t want to see the production plans, the prototypes or the first production models of his Sea Critter robots.

In place of the workshop time, Jör (and Fen too) tagged along for hours after Loki, Thor or Logan, making frequent afterschool trips up to Salem Center.

Tony felt utterly rejected as a role model.

Jöri spent a lot of time, too, reading in out-of-the-way places, or cuddled up with Loki, reading again, or playing duets, sometimes with Mr. Creative Husband (who could play any instrument he set his hand to), sometimes accompanying Loki to Boys and Girls Club and making music with the children there.

Apparently one of the main things Loki did at his community service job, in addition to distributing snacks, helping with homework and English-as-a-Second-Language Classes (Tony had visions of an entire generation of Lower East Siders springing loose on the world newly versed in Shakespearean English), was give the kids music lessons. They’d even be performing as part of a concert at the Mayor’s Mansion on Thanksgiving. It turned out Loki and Mrs. Mayor were now good buddies, having met at an event at the Oakhurst Gallery, where "Lo Stark" hung his paintings.

These days Jöri quivered, just a little, if Tony happened to touch him. Then froze. It was soul-destroying.

When Tony called their cook at home to ask about last night’s recipe, she’d practically burst into tears as she choked out her apologies, and Tony had felt so bad about even asking he’d just assured her everything was fine, just a little tummy-ache (because Loki was being cranky as hell and sometimes holding his middle when he thought Tony wasn’t looking) and he just wanted to check, maybe see how much they might be talking about, and if it was just a couple of teaspoons in a recipe big enough to feed a family of five (plus Thor) he wouldn’t even worry.

At which point Loki swanned by in his yoga clothes and started turning himself upset down outside on the terrace.

“Really, don’t even worry,” Tony told Mrs. Ransome. “He’s outside on the balcony doing yoga. Yup, even though it’s twenty degrees. What can I say? He grew up in Iceland.”

Every time he told someone Loki was from Iceland, it made Tony think of when he was a kid, watching _Saturday Night Live_ with his mom when his dad was out of town. He'd remember the Coneheads chorusing, in their flat, nasal alien voices, “We are from France.”

When Loki showed signs of returning inside, Tony met him at the door with a steaming cup of ginger tea.

“I broke Mrs. Ransome. She’s now trying to poison you to put you out of your misery.”

Loki groaned softly, flopping down on the couch while Tony took a moment to light the fire.

“It was raspberry vinegar, by the way. Two teaspoons in all that food. Are you getting more sensitive? ‘Cause I didn’t see the happy airplane bringing a whole lot of dinner down the little red runway last night.”

Tony wanted so badly for Loki to laugh, even a little, or at least snark at him, “I know not your happy aeroplanes and little red runways.”

He got nothing. Loki just looked hollow.

“You are gonna forgive me someday, aren’t you, Lok?”

“I see well in your mind that you hold no malice against me, no intent of cruelty that caused the act, best-belovéd Tony, and yet…”

“And yet, you don’t understand why I did any of it.”

“No,” Loki answered even more quietly. “I know precisely why. Yet I also know full well you will not hear me if I tell you, as you did not hear Hela when she made all clear to you. Again and again we lay our sorrows before you, and yet they mean nothing. I know your mind is truly poisoned against me.”

“I love your work almost as much as you do, babe. I know it’s your heart and your soul. I could see amazing you in every brushstroke. It was part of your legacy, and you meant to do good with it. You were—are—making Jör so happy, and I wrecked that. No matter how fantastic I think the new painting is, you don’t like it as much, it isn’t as special to you, and every time you see it it’s a knife in your heart. I miss anything from the list?”

He pulled the throw from the back of the couch and wrapped it around them both, glad he’d stopped to put on his bathrobe before he left their room—Loki’s skin was icy. Even though he hadn’t gone blue, it nearly burned to touch him.

“If you can’t do it, that’s okay. But if you can, maybe turn up the heat a little? Right now I’m snuggling a Popsicle.”

“Apologies.” Loki warmed a little, then a little more. Tony, who nearly always ran hot, pressed his palm against his husband’s stomach, rubbing gently.

“Ah, bliss,” Loki murmured. A little of the tension left his muscles.

“My head throbs also.” He tossed back the last of his tea.

“How much of that is dinner and how much is stress and overwork? You push hard as a way to deal with feeling antsy, but it’s turning into a vicious cycle, don’t you think? Were you always such a workaholic, babe?”

“I fear my own failure in this life, as I have failed in all others.”

Loki was kind enough not bring up Tony’s part in the stress and overwork pieces of the puzzle. Maybe, as he said, he'd just given up.

“Did you fail in your life with Myrddin?”

“Others raised our child, who has grown, some might say, to be an insufferable prat.”

“Okay, granted, some might. But at least he’s super smart. And at least he has friends, people who care about him. He does good in the world.”

“That is true, I suppose.” Loki turned his face, pressing it into Tony’s shoulder. “If I slept, only a little, would you hold me so? Just closely and quietly?”

“Oh, babe.” Tony stroked his husband’s hair. His voice broke. “Oh, babe.”

Loki did sleep, though not for long, and Tony only realized he'd woken when he roused from his own thoughts a moment and glanced down, seeing the firelight sparkle in Loki’s open eyes.

“You’re up? Whatcha thinking?”

“I only thought… For Thanksgiving, might we get away? To New England, to anywhere… I read of inns—are they lovely? Perhaps I might teach the children to ski. Perhaps you might learn also, if you know not.”

“Seriously? Downhill or cross-country?”

“As you prefer.” Loki sat up, stretching to infinity. “I am expert in either. Ullr himself trained me.”

“Let me guess. God of skiing?”

The corners of Loki’s mouth curved upward. “And hunting.”

“God of outdoor winter sports, that’s good. You guys have one for gym class too?”

Loki actually snickered. “We experience not gym class, only training for war, and that would be Tyr’s purlieu.”

“I love how with you—with those—guys, ‘god of mischief’ is considered evil and ‘god of war’ is top of the barrel. Gotta love those priorities. Actually, come to think of it, Thor’s ‘god of’ seems kinda random. Thunder? What’s that about?”

Loki wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge, closed it again.

“And fertility.”

“Say what?”

“First the thunder, then the rain, as the rain falls, the fields green. As the rain falls, so falls the seed of man upon the woman’s belly…” Loki probably didn’t even realize he’d rested his hand lightly over his own abdomen as he was speaking.

Poor guy, he must have been so confused, so horribly confused growing up, no one to lead or guide or accept him, no idea of what was truly right or wrong, no idea who he was…

“Thor is a fertility god?”

“In the marriage ceremonies of the Northmen, a facsimile of Mjolnir was laid across the bride’s lap. Surely it has not escaped you that my brother’s hammer is a blatant phallic symbol?”

“Fuck,” Tony said.

Surely it _had_ escaped him. He’d never be able fight alongside Point Break again without thinking…

“Christ, Loki!”

His husband actually giggled, eyes sparkling, and for a few minutes everything was okay again, like the good times.

Until Steve knocked on the door and ruined everything.


	6. On the Border

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mission to Latveria, Hela at work, and a surprising conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throw in the towel," meaning to admit defeat, comes from the world of boxing, where the boxer's manager will throw a towel or sponge into the ring to signal that his fighter is unable to continue the match.
> 
> Symkaria is the fictional country that has the misfortune to be located right next door to Victor von Doom's kingdom of Latveria in the Marvel Universe. 
> 
> "You’re not seeing the trees..." Confused, drunk Tony is trying to say "You can't see the forest for the trees."
> 
> The old woman's door opens to an image of lovely Göteborg, Sweden's second largest city.
> 
> Bellevue Hospital (now NYC Health + Hospitals/Bellevue) was founded in 1736 and  
> is the oldest public hospital in the U.S. In many minds (like Bedlam in England), its name is synonymous with "the loony bin" and a horrific standard of care for the mentally ill, even though, hopefully, this is no longer the case.
> 
> _Der Ring des Nibelungen_ (aka _The Ring of the Nibelung_ , or simply " _The Ring_ " to its  
> friends), is a cycle of four German-language epic operas by Richard Wagner, of which _Götterdämmerung (Twilight of the Gods)_ is the final chapter. It's five hours long, my friends. My advice, watch _Das Rheingold instead_. The music is enjoyable and you get lots of Loge (Loki) being crafty and telling the other characters they're idiots.  
>  Moo goo gai pan (the name, I'm told, literally translates as "button mushrooms chicken sliced") is an Americanized Cantonese stir-fry of mushrooms, chicken and mixed vegetables.
> 
> Tony is sending Hela a visual representation of the adage “The apple never falls far from the tree”--in other words, "like _Pabbi_ , like daughter.”

* * *

“You shouldn’t have married him, you know,” Bruce said to Tony.

They were crashed out in a Symkarian hotel, just a stone's throw from the northern border between Symkaria and Latveria, sharing a room because half the place had been blown to hell, with only a handful of rooms left habitable. Only two days remained before Thanksgiving, and  they both were utterly exhausted from a mission that until just a couple hours before seemed likely never to end--not within their lifetimes anyway.

Tony guessed von Doom wanted to get his pre-holiday world domination plotting done in time to celebrate Turkey Day with his loved ones and count his blessings before he hit the Black Friday sales.

When he told Bruce his theory, his ScienceBro and BFF told him he was silly, that Victor von D. was clearly more a Cyber Monday kind of dude.

Then Bruce lay flat on his back on the plushy queen-sized bed and giggled for nearly twenty minutes. He’d spent a lot of time as The Other Guy in the past weeks. It affected him, and not in a good way.

They’d both been drinking just a little bit more than was good for them (and it was an indicator of the extreme fuckitude of that particular mission that all-but-fulltime teetotaler Bruce was indulging at all, much less overindulging).

The name of the local tipple meant “White Fire,” the label said both бял огън and _Foc Alb_ , which was, amusingly, pronounced “Fuck Al.”

Clint called it “Fuck Up.” He planned to bring a couple bottles home with him as a gift for Phil.

_Foc Alb_ tasted like a cross between Everclear, Swedish vodka and silver tequila, with just a spritz of lighter fluid. It had the side effect of lightly singeing ones nose hair when imbibed too quickly.

“You jumped into it too fast,” Bruce continued once the giggles ceased. “Loki has a steamer trunk of hurt and issues. Hell, as I've said more then once, even Loki’s issues have issues. And now you have those three very weird kids to think about too.”

“Steamer trunk?” Tony turned his best, _Seriously, bro?_ look at his friend.

On the mission, in the brief downtimes between getting beat on by Doombots and mutated mind-controlled cyborg Shi’ar and a baker’s dozen of other assorted funky aliens, Bruce had been reading a steampunk novel.

“Please note, if I ever catch you wearing a top hat and it’s not either a formal wedding or a funeral, we are no longer friends.”

“Seriously, Tony.”

“Seriously,” Tony mimicked, because although he usually wasn’t a mean drunk, as proved by far too many recent events, sometimes he really, really was.

Ever since the night of the painting, he’d been adamant with himself about skipping the booze whenever the kids were around. Many things he might be but, as he’d said, Howard Stark would not be one of them. Which meant, really, that he got in a lot of his maintenance drinking either at away-from-the-tower business lunches, or after bedtimes in the workshop or lab. He’d also switched from his beloved Glenmorangie to the most odorless brand of vodka available. What it lacked in flavor it made up for in getting the job done, also in a decrease of husbandly grief received.

_As if Loki doesn't realize you're drinking_ , his conscience reminded him. _I told you he's thrown in the towel._

“My kids are not weird,” Tony argued. “My kids are the best, most beautiful kids that ever were. In the history of kids. And for your fucking information, Bruce, even people who are hurt deserve to be loved. Or maybe more. Moreso. Maybe moreso.”

Damn, he _was_ drunk.

“You’re not," Tony continued, "Seeing the trees for the… something else that has to do with trees.”

Bruce turned to him. He looked mean and slightly greenish. Tony wanted to pummel the mean, greenish look off his face.

“Kid one is a shapeshifter who likes to turn into a dragon," Bruce said, his voice not warm at all, but flat and slightly slurred. "The other day I went in to use the men’s room on the lobby level. Your son was twined around one of the pillars, flicking out his blue tongue, He scared the ever-living crap out of me.”

“Good fucking thing you were in the men’s room, then,” Tony muttered.

“Kid number two, the living embodiment of Death. _Death,_ Tony? Need I say more?”

“Blesséd Death,” Tony said. “Is the most honored of all the Deaths.”

He remembered the elderly woman Hela visited in Hospice, just before the shit really started hitting the fan.

“It was here,” Hela indicated, on their way upstate in the town car, small hand making a circle over her tummy, “Then here.” Over her chest. “Then here.” Two fragile hands to her temples. “When she could talk, she said terrible things sometimes to her family. She didn’t want to say them.”

“Sweetheart,” Tony choked out. There wasn’t anything else he could say.

It was always Happy who drove them on these missions, Head of Security or not, and he never said anything either. Afterwards they stopped for ice cream.

When they got to the shadowy room, a woman about Tony’s age was holding the old woman’s hand. She was talking softly about different things, private things, shared memories—mother/daughter stuff, he guessed, though Tony was ninety-nine per cent certain the old lady was a long, long way from being able to hear her.

In the middle of it she said, “It’s all right, Mom. If it’s time, it’s all right to go.”

Hela, suddenly close to the bed, brushed away a tear from the younger woman’s cheek, then took off her black velvet gloves, one by one.

Carefully, she raised the old woman’s other hand between her two small, bare ones.

The door, this time, was bright blue. The old woman smiled to see it as the years began to peel away from her.

“What a pretty color!” she said.

“I made it the color of the Swedish flag, to remind you of home,” Hela answered modestly. “Would you like me to open it for you?”

“No, no, I can manage,” said the woman who had been old, as she rushed up the three brick steps like a girl, flung open the door and ran through.

For just a moment, Tony glimpsed a blue, blue harbor, boats, brightly colored houses built close together.

“You, young lady,” he said to his daughter, “Are messing severely with my world view.”

Hela would have giggled, but instead she pressed her once-again-gloved fingers against her lips.

“May I help you?” said the woman his age, still sitting by the bed, still holding her mother’s hand.

For once Tony didn’t disgrace himself—maybe it was Hela’s good example.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I’m Tony Stark and I’ve been planning to sponsor this place, and…” Well, maybe he disgraced himself a little. “This is my daughter, Hela. Is there anything we can do for you?”

The woman smiled. It was a nice smile, just tired.

“What an unusual name," she said. "I know a story about girl named Hela, but I never imagined her as pretty as you.”

“That was probably a story about Queen Hela," Tony's own Hela responded. "The one who rules Helheimr. I believe I am much prettier than she is.”

“Hela Lokisdottir Stark,” Tony muttered, beginning to exert a discrete dad-pull in an attempt to gently but forcefully remove his daughter from the situation before the two of them got carted away to Bellevue.

“It’s all right, Mr. Stark. Sometimes death is blessed death.” The woman slipped her mother’s hand under the covers, pulling them up and straightening them, as if tucking the old lady snuggly in. “Thank you, Hela, for stopping by today.”

 

“You are so full of shit, Bruce,” Tony snarled.

"Bruce," he discovered, was a very good name for snarling.  He kept it down a little bit, though, because his so-called friend really was looking very green.

It hit him, suddenly, that as much as Bruce wanted to die sometimes (though he claimed he didn’t now, not anymore, the liar), a touch from his small daughter's ungloved hand could end all that. Just a little, little touch and then a normal-sized door for Bruce or a great, big, green door for The Other Guy.

He wondered if Hela would be the one who came for him someday—a grown-up, sophisticated, drop dead (pun intended) gorgeous-like-her- _Pabbi_ Hela, suddenly there, sitting down beside him on the bed, drawing off her black gloves.

Would she come for her brothers? For Loki, if he didn’t irritate someone to the point that he got a visit from the Death That Comes to Those Who Needlessly Annoy Others?

He could joke, but Tony’s true greatest fear was that the Death who came for Loki would turn out to be the Death of Despair, or her sister the Death of Madness, with both of whom Loki was undoubtedly already on at least handshaking terms.

_Like you help with that, Tony_ , the voice in his head liked to say. _Like you really, really help_.

With that he’d crossed over into the maudlin stage of drunk, and he sat there crying big salty tears while Bruce went on and on about Tony’s wonderful, adorable, brave (not Bruce’s words, the opposite of Bruce’s words, really) Fenrir and his special educational needs (because he saved our fucking lives including yours, ass-clown, and just because someone's different doesn't make him less-than) and Feb's penchant for roaming the corridors of Stark Tower in the form of a giant dire wolf and frightening members of the board of directors.

Which actually made for a great family story, because Loki had been right there with there son, and had tossed out a quick glamour of snow and ice and movie cameras, turned Fenrir white and made himself look like Jon Snow from Game of Thrones, telling the board members, as a suspiciously imperious and posh FauxSnow, “We are filming a promo! Do you MIND?”

The kids had practically fallen off the couch laughing at that one.

“And the singing!” Bruce went on. “It’s like _Gӧtterdämmerung_ 24/7. It drives everyone crazy.”

Suddenly Tony went straight from maudlin to next door to stone cold sober.

“You guys have your own floors and they’re shielded and soundproofed for a reason. If that’s the consensus you’ve come to behind my back, fine. The whole lot of you can stay the fuck out of the penthouse and we’ll all stay out of the common areas and good-frickin’-luck to you all when you need me to fix something or want Loki to magic something up for you, because I know you guys ask him. They are my family and they are the best of me—and you guys are not. Go build your own technologically amazing tower.”

All of which would have probably had more impact on Bruce if he hadn’t been hanging over the balcony railing, decorating the Symkarian bushes far below with recycled Fuck Al and Moo Goo Gai Pan.

Tony held onto him so he didn’t fall over, then got him into bed with a bunch of strategically arranged pillows so he didn’t roll off his side and earn himself a visit from the Death of Overly-Substance-Indulgent Rock Musicians (and Physicists Who Also Aren’t That Kind of Doctor).

He took off Bruce’s glasses and folded them neatly on the nightstand, put a glass of water nearby and a wastebasket at head-level. Then, because he did kinda love his poor ScienceBro, as well as hating him an equal amount at the moment, he sat down on the opposite side of the bed. It was a big bed.

“Rub my back?” Bruce said to his pillow in a sad little squooshed voice.

Tony rubbed, one handed. It wasn’t really one of his talents.

It occurred to him that the reason he’d had so many one night stands back in the weird old days before Pepper, before Loki, was that he’d been a fairly shitty lover—his money, maybe even his brains made him attractive, but it was superficial, shallow as a garden pond, selfish.

Pepper had been the start of something better--beautiful, yes, though it had been her triple threat of smart/tough/kind that really hooked him. She gave him some leeway, she really did, and she didn’t set out to change him (as if that wouldn’t be a lost cause)—it was more like she made him want to change himself, to really shine up those best parts of himself, to not take the easy way out by being a lazy asshole.

And Loki?

Here, Tony thought, Bruce was being deliberately obtuse, because he’d look at Loki and see the hurt but not the strength, the randomness but not the determination, see the crazy bag-of-cats alien where Tony saw his miraculous god of chaos. Tony saw a man (being?) who not only endured sixteen months of unrelenting torture but still had the balls to fling himself across half a world, into the very backyard of his enemies, just to make sure his kids had a chance for a halfway decent life.

Bruce, with his squooshed face, started snoring. After a while, he went into one of his twitchy dreams.

Tony knew what happened next: the small voice that sounded nothing and everything like his Bruce, “No, Dad. No, Dad. No no no, please, no, Daddy, no.”

It was always the "daddy" that got him, when Bruce had these dreams.

Tony rested his hand on Bruce’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “We've had our tough times, Bruce, but you’re still the best.  The best man, the best friend. I’m so lucky to have you. You made it out, man. Remember that, okay?”

He reached behind, fishing out a pillow from “his” side of the bed and tucked it between his head and his shoulder, keeping his hand between Bruce’s shoulder blades.

“Please, Dad…” Bruce sighed.

Tony wondered if Loki knew any convenient resurrection spells, so that they could bring back Brian Banner and arrange a meeting for him with the Death of Messy, Horrifying and Lingering Ends. Though maybe being Hulked to death was enough. Actually, no it wasn’t. Nothing was enough.

He’d had a dream once that he owned a giant hammer like Thor’s Mjolnir and he could fly around the world mightily smiting sick bastards like the senior Mr. Banner and, to a lesser extent, his own father. Clint's dad. Odin. Baldr. Laufey. The list just went on and on. It could end up being a full time job.

Another time Tony dreamed he’d had Loki de-age Bruce to a toddler and their family had been all happy again and he’d grown up joyful and exuberant in the middle of all the weird, crazy, loving _Gӧtterdämmerung_ 24/7, and The Other Guy had never, ever been.

He hated so much that Bruce felt like the outsider, like the hungry little kid with his nose pressed to the candy shop window, and he wished he knew how to fix that. He wished Bruce would give up on hating Loki so much, treating his husband like an outsider, so that they could actually let him in.

And so back around to the no good at fixing people thing.

Tony wished fiercely he could be back in New York, in Stark (or Avengers) Tower, in the penthouse, in his and Loki’s bed. He imagined Loki uncoiled on the dark green sheets, long, long legs half tucked up, arms stretched wide, the way his two-shades-short-of-paper-white skin seemed to gather moonlight, his supple slenderness and taut muscle, the way his hair seemed to cast storm clouds everywhere. His skin was not precisely like mortal skin, it was softer, yet more resilient, and it drank in Tony’s touch.

A curl of dark smoke twined through the back of his brain.

_Miss me, beloved?_

_More than you’ll ever know, Lok._

The smoke twined further, touching here, touching there.

_Might want to reconsider. I’m in bed with Bruce and he’s likely to freak if he wakes up with my enormous hard-on next to his ass._

_Question???_ the smoke sent, followed by a silver-dark burst of laughter. _You flatter yourself, prince of my heart_.

_That’s it, no more_ Game of Thrones _for you_.

_You are not so handsome as Jon Snow_ , Loki teased. _I would leave you in a heartbeat for Jon Snow._

_If that's the case, he can have your prima donna ass._

A weird little hiccup in Loki’s sending. Whoa. He’d _really_ hated being called a prima donna just then, even in fun. A moment of withdrawing followed, driven by strong emotion, before he touched Tony’s mind again.

_Thor has expressed an admiration for Lady Brienne. He says, though she is not so lissome as Dr. Jane Foster, yet she is puissant._

_I keep wondering if that's even a word.  Bruce says yes, I have doubts._

_I am a professor of linguistics, you might trust me in this._

_I always trust you, babe._

Another moment of withdrawing, briefer this time.

_I believe the word to be of French origin, and that Thor pronounced it incorrectly. By anything you hold holy, do not you, or any one of your Avengers present him again with a_ 365 Days of Words Calendar _this_ Jul. _I would not be held responsible for my actions._

_I learned from the best, husband o' mine._

Tony expected another snowfall of laughter, instead he caught a burst of near-desperate longing.

_Prince of my heart?_ Tony sent gently, caressingly.

He could feel Loki’s breathing inside his head, slow, careful. He decided to attempt another tack.

_So. Besides binge-watching_ Game of Thrones _with Thor when he was supposed to be here Mjolnirating Doombots with us, what else have you been up to? Classes going well? Kiddo report? Is Hela getting crushed with the pre-Christmas orders? Are Jöri’s Critters out in the stores yet? Have you moved on to book three?_

They'd all agreed to pretend that Thor had stayed behind to guard New York and/or out of general laziness, not because he was worried about his little brother. The thunder (and fertility) god was by no means a fan of S.H.I.E.L.D. these days.

For an answer, Tony had expected the usual grumblings about cow-eyed nubile females invading the front rows of his lectures in increasing numbers, to which Tony would of course flip a dry little sending of, _Sucks to be you, babe_. He’d expected the surge of pride/joy/excitement he got when Loki talked about their kids and their endeavors—Jori’s tiny sea-creature robots, Hela’s burgeoning ethical-treatment-for-all-workers fashion and design business, the snowballing number of words their sweet Fen was starting to speak, and a flood of other amusing stories.

Instead, he got RAGE.

Heartless, implacable, murderous rage.

A golden spear flying, then shattering apart in a torrent of red. A brief flash of a small gold shield (maybe?) A downspill of blood.

The kids generally understood when Loki went Google Images in his sendings, but Tony invariably got lost, as if his mental movies ran at a different frames per second rate than theirs did. That aside, Loki dropping into pictures never meant anything good.

It wasn’t an accident that Loki had pursued linguistics as his Midgardian profession (or one of them, anyway). He’d long since stopped using Allspeak (unlike Thor, who was pretty much cheater, cheater, Allspeak repeater) and Tony had equally long since given up trying to keep track of the languages, ancient and modern, that his husband had mastered—he ate them up like Thor gobbled Pop-Tarts. He’d go on at length about the texture and flavor of words and Tony would really try to listen but sometimes he’d just get lost, not only in the concepts, but in the gorgeous flash of Loki’s green eyes, the gesturing of his hands as his thoughts ran away with him.

Of all the beautiful things about Loki (second only to his quicksilver mind), Tony thought he might love his hands the best.

Tony tried again, gently, tenderly, lovingly, sending out all his warmth and caring, calling out all the silly names Loki sneered at and claimed to hate but secretly loved. All he got was the red waterfall.

Leaving that image on play, he went split-screen.

_Yo, Blesséd Death! QUESTION???_

Brief flash of Latin homework.

_What? You’re taking Latin? Where? Why?_

Image of Stark Academy logo. Image of Loki looking as dorky as it was possible for him to look, with his (admittedly pretty stylish and amazing) glasses on and severe (attractively tousled) bedhead—and the slightly-prim answer,  _It is the basis for much of your native language, Dad._

_Cruel, Blesséd Death. Cruel. Use your words_.

Really, he was just so fucking glad that, since he’d been away, she’d become willing to talk to him again.

_I’ve been up all night with Uncle Bruce and I’m getting a headache._

He expected, in that moment, to have her show him a picture of a bottle, but instead he caught a fiendish image of Hela crying big, crocodile tears. Tony had her number—she was trying to keep him from meltdown mode. Well, two could play at that game.

Tony sent an image of a cartoon Hela standing next to a cartoon Loki, then a very small white apple very close to a very tall white tree.

_Snerk_ , Hela sent, then an image of a healthy-sized red-and-yellow apple next to a short, stocky red-and-yellow tree. _Double snerk._

_Just letting you know, I’m revoking your trust fund_.

_Princess of Asgard!_ Image of SHINY CROWN!!!

Tony was speechless. _When? What??? Oh, the goddamn fucking bastard!!! Is that why Loki…??? Wait, you didn’t hear that._

Hela sent him an image of a white baby floating in a red circle with a red line across it.

_Point taken. No, you’re not a baby._

_Bastard=Allfucker_ (surrounded by red pointy arrows).

_You got it, Childlike Empress,_ Tony sent, along with an image of a brain being washed by soap.

_Bingo_ , Hela returned, then a very prim, _Pabbi never cusses when he’s sending with me._

Image of Bart Simpson being strangled by Homer from Tony.

Image of Hela levitating, throwing off sparks and flames. _Daughter of Fire God!!! Ta-da!!!_

_You know you’re not really a goddess, right, Empress? You’re amazing and you’ll live a really long time, but…_

Slightly sad image of Hela leading Blessed Dying to door. _Do we have to have the talk again, Dad? Gonna believe everything the Allfucker says?_

_Soap. Brain,_ Tony sent, but it was only a token gesture. They were very gentle with him, and tried to remind him as little as possible that he was a lone engineer in a household of gods.

Image of Tony on Mount Olympus, wearing a laurel crown. Burst of warm, undeniable love. Image of sparkly crown in red, crossed-out circle.

You don’t have to say that, sweetheart. It’s okay. It’s part of you. You’d make a kickass Allmother.

Image of very small, innocent-looking Thor. Image of complicated, three-dimensional rune-spell. Image of tsunami.

Tony didn’t get what she was saying exactly, but at the same time he did. It was the whole heir-and-a-spare thing, Thor being the heir. Since he hadn’t produced any heirs to date, and any kids he had with Jane would be considered “unworthy” due to their weak Midgardian blood, it meant the line jumped to another son “of the blood.” Meaning it wasn’t Loki’s line being considered, it was the line of that murdering, sadistic, pedophile fucker Baldr. And meaning, given the choice between Jӧri and Hela, they’d gone for the more Æsiroid option.

_Dad?_ A soft brush of a sending. _Odin spoke to me. He said he would hurt_ Pabbi _if we didn't go. Take him from us, hide him where we could not find him, hurt him. If Jör and I go with Heimdall, on Monday when he comes,_ Pabbi _may stay on Midgard, with you. It cannot be argued with, we must accompany the Watchman. It's only for a time, not always,_ Nornir _forfend._

_Does Loki… Does your_ Pabbi _know, Empress? How’s he…?_

_Taking it?_ Hela sent drily. _He knows Heimdall comes, that is all. The day only, not the way or the why._

There a basic rule about saying bad shit about your kid’s grandparents. Especially your in-laws, no matter how heinous.

Image from Hela of Clint shooting exploding arrow through Odin’s head. Image of Huginn and Muninn feasting on his flesh.

_You really are half Æs, aren’t you, princess?_

_Jӧtunn power!!!_ Hela sent.

_Can you get Uncle Kurt to come over?_

Image of shoe dropping. Image of second shoe dropping.

_Oh. Crap._ That would be no. _Is there anyone there in the building except J.A.R.V.I.S.? Anyone tall enough for the scary rides?_

_Auntie Pepper_ , Hela sent.

That was good, Pepper was good—and Loki adored her. She was sensible, too, which was extra good. And she knew how to get things done.

_Yay, Pepper! Get her up there, sweetheart. I’ll come home right now. Right now. I promise. Don’t let your_ Pabbi _freak out, okay. Empress? I hate to put you in this position, but please… Don’t let him do something stupid. Don’t…_

_Daddy,_ Hela sent quietly. I _won’t. You know I won’t. Even if Uncle Thor has to hold him._

_Thor knows? He won’t give it away?_

_Mischief managed_ , Hela told him matter-of factly. _I shielded his thoughts so only the Jane-and-recipe-and-Christmas-cheer is leaking through._

Honestly, that was a couple more thoughts than Tony would have thought his bro-in-law’s brain could manage at one time, but he wasn’t complaining, this was his Childlike Empress’s area of expertise, not his, and let it never be said Tony Stark wouldn’t delegate when necessary. He only hoped somewhere beneath the Empress’s extreme BAMFitude, there wasn’t a scared little girl crying out, _Daddy, Daddy, what about me? Save me from this!_

_There isn’t,_ Hela said, without regret. _I’m not sure there ever was. What I am, what I’m like… don’t let it make you sad, okay? It just goes with the territory._

Tony wasn’t sure, in the end, if he did feel glad that she seemed perfectly able to carry this weight, or filled with sorrow that small as she was, in her Childlike Empress body, that she was not a kid, and maybe never had been. That she was maybe the antithesis of kiddom, tough and ancient and filled with old, hard knowledge, that her fashion designs, her paintings, her music lessons, were just a mask she happened to enjoy, a veneer, an elaborate, frilly frosting covering something that was so not any kind of sweet cupcake.

_I love you almost more than anyone, Hela,_ Tony told her.

_I love you almost more than anyone too, Dad,_ his daughter answered, and it was okay that they put it that way—they both knew Loki was the one exception for each of them, and that was fine, it was understood.

_Cue Uncle Cap_ , Hela sent, and just underneath, barely detectible, _Take care of_ Pabbi, Dad? Ever-so-gently? He won’t be able to bear this. He will need every last bit you possess of your strength and kindness.

_I know,_ Tony told her. _I know. I’ll try, Empress. I will. And you’ll watch out for Jör for us, right?_

Only his daughter had cut their connection. He hoped she never heard his fear, his uncertainty.

Steve’s polite knock sounded on the door. Tony flung it open so hard and fast Cap actually recoiled.

“Grab Bruce,” Tony snapped at him. “We’re going home now. This very minute.”


	7. An Early Jul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony comes home from his Latveria and the family enjoys a much deserved Thanksgiving Vacation in Vermont. Unfortunately, all holidays have to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me! After I'd brought in the text for this chapter, but before I got a chance to format it properly, I had called away for emergency mom-duties. In my haste, I accidentally clicked "post" instead of "save without posting." Oops! Everything should be fixed now, and thank you Luria for bringing the mistake to my attention.
> 
> "Sleep While I Drive" was written by Melissa Etheridge and appears on her _Brave and Crazy_ album(1989). 
> 
> Nine all-black puppies hung in an ash tree was a traditional offering to Odin. Poor Thor might also want to work out his Santa/Satan confusion before he has kids of his own.

* * *

“Hey, Tony, it looks like you have a welcoming committee!” Cap called over his shoulder as the QuinJet banked low over the former Stark Tower. The sign installers appeared to have made it as far as hanging the (now-blue) A, the newly-red v and the e, all appropriately Avengers fonted.

Well, that was a relief—Tony didn’t think he could have stood any more sign-related malarkey, especially after the sucktastic November he’d totally-not-enjoyed so far.

He made his way forward, dropping into the co-pilot’s seat by Steve’s side, buckling himself in to avoid any Captainly fussing.

“ _Ave_!” Tony said. “It means ‘Hail!” And clearly my hubby is affecting my brain. It’s how Julius Caesar said ‘howdy?’”

“And Hydra,” Steve said.

“Say what?”

“Y’know—‘Hail Hydra?’ How our sworn enemies greet each other?”

“Well… poop.” Tony started to laugh, he couldn’t help himself. That damn sign would be the death of him. And clearly he needed more sleep. Lots of it. Preferably curled by the side of a certain long and lanky trickster god.

He laughed at himself again. “Hell, you’d kind of think I’d remember that, wouldn’t you? I’m loopy, completely loopy! Stupid Latveria.”

Steve gave a soft little chuckle too. “At this point I almost feel as if I could sleep another seventy years. Preferably not on ice, though.”

“Yeah, I prefer to sleep on Frost Giant, not on actual frost.”

Tony didn’t miss Steve’s sidelong, _Say what?_ look.

“It’s a Loki thing. Remind me to show you a picture one of these days, okay?”

Which was a total fib. He’d never met anyone as ashamed of his appearance as Loki was when he went blue. That he even had a picture of his husband all _Jötunned_ out was a fluke. It didn’t matter that Tony found him beautiful whether alabaster or cerulean, and was never for one second less than proud to call Loki his husband. Sharing an image of him in _Jötunn_ form would most likely be seen as unforgivable, a betrayal.

Maybe even a Strike Two. He _so_ didn't want to progress to Strike Two.

He was home now, though, and swear to all the Nordic gods he wasn’t going to go there, toward Loki's letter and his ultimatum. Instead, he fully intended to make Loki feel like the prince he was raised to be, nothing else mattered. They would have their Thanksgiving, as a family, before…

Nope. Unh-uh. No way. His brain was not allowed to go there either. Not this weekend, and especially not so close to where Loki might easily overhear. Though how he was supposed to keep those thoughts out of his head when they were the only thoughts that seemed like they wanted to intrude…?

 _Buck up, little buckaroo_ , he ordered himself. No way you will ruin Loki’s holiday.

Sure enough, down below, just as Steve had said, four figures waited just over by the elevator housing: a tall, thin, graceful shape in black, a much smaller bell-shaped form, also in black, holding its hand, a sturdy small person practicing cartwheels around the elevator and a slender, taller, yet still small person in a bright green jacket raising up his arms to Loki to be lifted.

"That’s Jöri,” Tony said softly. “We haven’t spoken since I left. He and Fen don’t have Hela’s range for sending, and he wouldn’t come to the phone when I’d call. Loki wouldn’t make him.”

Gods, he was scared. What if he couldn’t get Jör back? What if his sweet little inventor _never_ loved him again?

“Never is a long while,” Loki had told him, trying to soothe Tony’s fears, “He will turn to you again, belovéd. Grudges are not so in Jöri’s nature as they are in mine.”

Tony wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse. Sometimes he felt as if every way he naturally turned was wrong, that he’d been born with one foot wedged firmly in mouth instead of able to balance gracefully on a thin, thin wire, like his BFF-in-law, Kurt.

“Don’t you think he was probably right, Tony?” Steve asked. “Sometimes it’s better just to take a little break when you’re feeling upset. Your boy loves you. He’ll get over his anger. It’s the nature of kids to bounce back.” He touched the QuinJet down on its landing pad so gently there wasn’t so much as a tremor or a bump. What ever else you wanted to say about Steve, he was, without question, one hell of a pilot. “And here we are, home again, home again…”

“Jiggety-jig,” Tony murmured. He watched Loki straighten a little from having just said something to Fen, his face opening into that smile exactly like sunlight breaking through a storm. Oh, his radiant Loki…

In that instant, Tony bolted out the door without even thinking about grabbing his shit.

A streamlined small dragon shot toward him, the impact of its hard body against his own nearly knocking him off balance, its neck whipping around his neck, its tail wrapping his legs. A cacophony of apologies poured into Jöri’s head as Tony’s hands rubbed over serrated ridges and satiny scales, and slowly, slowly the dragon melted from a magical creature and once again into a weeping little boy.

 _“Besta elskaði minn fallega dreka_ ,” Tony said, pronouncing the SpaceViking words slowly and carefully. They still felt too big to fit in his mouth, and he still had no idea how his family managed their rapid-fire deliveries, but Thor had been a surprisingly effective (and patient) teacher.

 _My best-loved beautiful dragon_ , he’d said.

“You’ve done nothing to be forgiven for, Jör,” Tony murmured in his ear. “It was all me, okay? It was all me, and I’m so, so sorry. I can’t say I’ll never do anything again that hurts you, but I’ll sure try not to. I’ll really, really try.”

Jöri rubbed his face against Tony’s shoulder, his long, slender fingers, so much like Loki’s, made fists in the fabric of Tony’s puffy coat. Tony kissed the top of his son’s soft frost-colored hair, overjoyed to see the small green frills behind his ears tuck away as if they had never been.

Fen bounded over to him, Big but not _Big_ , more the size of a stocky, healthy wolf-cub. He plopped himself down on Tony’s right foot, wriggling and rubbing against him, shedding clouds of brindle fur in absolute ecstasy.

Hela and Loki approached more slowly, the high winds atop the tower blowing their curly dark hair into crazy storms of smoke.

Hela ran the last few steps, ending up just short of where Tony stood, balanced on her toes in what might almost be mistaken for a show of kid enthusiasm.

Still holding Jöri tight, Tony bent to take her hand, kissing her gloved knuckles tenderly. “My Childlike Empress,” he said.

“Dad.” She gave a shiny, bright-eyed smile—and in the next instant was plastered against his front, clinging tight around Tony’s waist. “I missed you, I missed you, Dad,” she cried, even as Loki’s voice was somehow purring in his ear from behind.

“I have also longed for you, husband.”

Tony had never seen him move, but his cool lips brushed Tony’s throat, even as his tongue drew a line of fire up the vein. In the next second they were all inextricably wound together, all arms and legs and tears, one person’s hair getting tangled in another’s fingers and no one caring when it pulled, Loki’s ridiculously long reach encircling them all. Tony could feel his husband shaking against his back, but whether that was with cold—Loki had no coat on, much less gloves, hat or any other article of sensible winter clothing, though the kids were decently bundled—or for some other reason, he couldn’t have said.

When Tony reached for his husband’s thoughts he only got chaos, nothing he could catch hold of or understand.

“Loki, what the hell? It’s, like, ten degrees.” Tony lovingly peeled kids away from his body in order to be able to turn and face his love. “On the other hand, why are you even cold?"

“I overheated loading the car and misremembered my coat below, I fear.” Loki laughed at himself. He caught hold of Tony’s warmly-gloved hands with his own rapidly-turning-blue ones. “All is prepared, best-belovéd, all packed, and I endeavored with dear Pepper to see your schedule cleared until after the holiday—imagine, you’ve nothing before next Wednesday!. I have even gained a boon from Director Phil Coulson, that I might neglect our usual Friday meeting and not report until I have completed my Monday hours at the University. I have only needed to make a small magic for him in return for his generosity.”

 _Fuck you, Phil_ , Tony thought, willing to bet whatever Coulson had requested explained, in large part, his husband’s shakiness. Meanwhile, Loki was actually tugging on his hands, everything in his face speaking of earnestness, sincerity, an excitement next door to anxiety.

“You will come away with us, will you not, husband? It shall be our first Thanksgiving together that I remember, and I truly have made provision for everything.”

“Does Loki need his walkies?” Clint snarked passing by. “You better hop to it, Tone—don’t want puddles in the landing zone.”

“Happy Day of Thanksgiving to you, Agent Barton,” Loki responded, a trifle stiffly, but with perfect politeness. “And also to you, Agent Romanova. Best of Holidays to you, Dr. Banner.”

Bruce started to say something, then just turned and walked away.

Tony knew Loki had been right in his earlier oddly-phrased assessment: his fellow Avengers truly wouldn’t piss on Loki to put out his fire. And there Loki stood, tall, elegant and trembling, his attempts to hide the hurt only making it more obvious to anyone who knew how to read him.

These days Tony read his husband like Loki read one of his beloved books. He suspected Loki read him even better than that.

In contrast to their teammates, Cap stopped to shake hands with each of them in turn: Hela, then the boys (Fen changed politely back to human for his handshake), then Loki.

“Thank you for bringing my husband home well and safely,” Loki told him, catching Steve’s slightly bemused gaze with his own. “You were ever a leader of fine ability, Captain Rogers.”

“Thank you, Dr. Stark. I hope you and your family have a wonderful holiday.” He clapped Tony on the back. “See you on Tuesday?”

“Sounds good,” Tony answered, still wondering what had Loki’s knickers in a twist. Okay, so he remembered now about their inn-related planning, but he thought he’d at least have time to shower, change and check his mail—maybe even get to spend a night in their own bed. He totally hadn’t counted on overly-excited-yet strangely-sad-Labrador-retriever Loki entering into the mix.

He almost said something, but then he noticed how his husband was standing—head bowed, shoulders slumped, eyes fixed blankly on the middle distance. Loki wasn’t overly-excited at all, he was both deeply frightened and deeply grieving. In other words, he knew. He knew absolutely what was coming on Monday, and whatever else he might be thinking, he wanted them all to have this one perfect holiday together, in case this was the last together they were ever given. He didn’t want them to linger here, where anything could happen.

Tony took Loki’s blue-with-cold left hand between his two warm-gloved ones, rubbing it gently. “Wow, you guys did all the packing and planning? You rock my world, family-of-mine! Do you know what a fantastic surprise this is?” He pulled Loki in close, wrapping his arm around his husband’s waist, as Loki leaned against him, only a little, but gratefully.

“ _Pabbi_ got his driver’s license,” Jöri informed Tony. “It’s utterly terrifying!”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Tony laughed, giving Loki’s hand a squeeze. In the elevator going down he did some leaning of his own, pressing (more-or-less, given their height difference) chest-to-chest, the slow, more-than-humanly forceful beat of Loki’s heart just under his ear.

Somewhere around the twentieth floor, Loki began to sing, in a quiet, silken voice:

 _Come on, baby, let's get out of this town_  
_I got a full tank of gas with the top rolled down_  
_There's a chill in my bones, I don't wanna be left alone_  
_So baby you can sleep while I drive_

Tony had been aware of the song, he guessed, from some time in the past, once of those songs his mental filing system classified as “chick music” and basically forgot. Loki brought something else to it, though—a sense of _even as you drift from me I will still hold your life in my hands, by my own choice. I will guard, love, protect you, when you can’t protect yourself._

Baby, you can sleep while I drive.

The way Loki sang wasn’t just gorgeous, it was so true, so revealing, it hurt.

“So,” Tony said quietly, only laughing a little because inside his joke he was really saying, _I love you almost more than I can bear_ , “How terrifying are we talking about here, guys?”

It turned out that Tony didn’t have time to be terrified. He fell asleep practically the moment Loki headed the brand new Loki-green Range Rover Sport (the model with the three rows, natch), that was apparently the latest Stark family car, out of the underground garage.

He next opened his eyes crossing over the border from New Hampshire into Vermont. The dashboard clock told him nearly six hours had passed. Tony glanced over his shoulder. All three kids were napped out in the seat behind them, looking like marionettes with cut strings. Hela had a hardcover copy of _Bleak House_ open on her lap, the boys had their StarkPads, Jöri with one bright blue dolphin ear-bud still in his ear, Fen cuddling his favorite blanket.

He caught Loki’s sideways smile, the flash of his eyes in the late-afternoon near-darkness, his outright laughter as Tony stretched and stretched and stretched, making subdued bear-noises.

“He awakens! The miraculous occurs!”

“God, I feel rested. But, my poor baby, you must be beat. Have you been driving all this time?”

“With brief interruptions. Jöri became mildly carsick, but a brief stop for fresh air and a ginger ale soon set him right. The ginger seems as beneficial for him as it is for me. We listened to an audiobook of Harry Potter until the children slept, and I have been softly hearing music since in aid of my alertness. All has been well. My driving truly is not frightening in any way, despite what our son has told you. I drove for many years before my latest sojourn in Asgard, often in a Land Rover.”

Tony watched the landscape fly by: mountains, snow, trees, darkening roads. Loki drove fast, it was true, but with perfect control.

Without taking his eyes from the road, Loki took his right hand off the wheel, reaching toward Tony. Tony took the hand between both his, rubbing gently at the joints that sometimes hurt his husband worst, trying to warm his Loki's icy skin.

“So freezing!” he exclaimed. “Remind me to buy you some really excellent driving gloves?”

“I prefer the touch of my naked skin against the wheel.” Loki laughed as Tony gave an involuntary shiver at his words. “You went elsewhere entirely at my statement than that place which I intended.” Smiling with a little catlike curve to the corners of his lips, eyes still firmly watching the road and his hand a soft, if chilly, curve within Tony’s, he began to send those silvery little smoky tickling tendrils of thought into Tony’s mind, those tendrils Tony was powerless to resist.

Loki chuckled softly when he gasped, again when he groaned into the cover of their clasped hands.

Just as quickly, the smoke withdrew, Loki’s soundless laughter now bordering on fiendish--the perfect accompaniment to Tony’s equally soundless yet no less heartfelt groan.

 _Apologies,_ Loki sent. _Waking carsick youngling._

He navigated the big vehicle smoothly to the narrow shoulder, switched on the flashers and hurried around to Tony’s side. “Beware, beloved, the shoulder drops to nothing and the rail of guarding reaches only to my shins.”

“What can I do?”

“I left the cooler in the third row after our last stop. We are no longer distant from our destination, but perhaps another ginger ale would not go amiss. I purchased the small tins for our small ones. And a straw, of course.” Loki murmured gently to Jöri in SpaceViking as he lifted the little boy out of his booster seat.

Their son, of course, chose that moment to let loose of everything. By the red light of the flashers, it was like a scene from a horror movie. Still dripping and, to his credit, still cradling their son with one arm, Loki sat down abruptly on the guardrail. Tony honestly couldn’t tell if he was laughing or crying.

Usually his husband was an ace at handling anything kid-related, buy maybe being projectile-vomited on at the end of a seven hour drive when your husband has been away for weeks shook even his godlike resolve.

“Lok?” Tony said.

“Wipes and paper toweling in the back. And bin-liners. Clean clothes would not be amiss. Jöri’s first, I should think. Head-to-toe, I’m afraid. Actually, take his things into the third seat and shut the doors. I’ll undress him out here but pass him in to you, the cold is too bitter for him.”

He cleaned Jöri face and hands tenderly. “How are you now, my sweetling? Better?”

Jöri nodded, hiccuped a couple times, and let loose again, this time only getting Loki from the chest down. Maybe that was an improvement. Maybe not so much.

Wildly inappropriate as it would have been, Tony almost wanted to laugh at Loki’s expression—a perfect mixture of parental concern, overwhelming disgust and an unmistakable desire to shake his fist at the universe.

“What is magic intended for, if not for this?” Loki asked himself conversationally. “I drip with before-used tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich. I shall use my craft. I will not be gainsaid. Tony, you shall drive.”

“You got it, babe,” Tony answered, knowing better than to argue. He stopped his digging, only bringing out Jöri’s favorite pillow and blanket. He was dropping them in the seat when the green light flashed behind him, and the next second Loki’s had eeled his way past him, their son still in his arms, both of them clean, neat and sweet-smelling.

“Hey, lookin’ good!” he exclaimed.

Loki collapsed onto the upholstery, paler-than-pale and breathless. “I am… I am a little…”

Tony crouched between the seats. “Your heartbeat’s racing. I can see it in your throat. Try a few slow breaths, okay?” He popped open the soda and inserted the straw, passing it to his son. “How ‘bout you, big guy? Your tummy okay?”

Jöri touched the colorful octopus on the front of his sweater, the tip of his tongue poking through the gap left by his missing tooth. “I threw up a lot.”

“Sure did,” Tony agreed. “I was impressed. Are you good to go now?”

“Pabbi made me better, Dad. Now I’m all sleepy again.”

Loki had sagged sideways, his head on Jör’s pillow. After a long pull at his straw, their son secured his soda in the cup holder and climbed up onto the bench seat, snuggling face-to-face with his _Pabbi._ Tony knew he ought to make them buckle up for safety, but he didn’t have the heart. Instead he tucked the blanket around them both, bending in to kiss the fair head and the dark.

“Clay Brook at Sugarbush. GPS,” Loki mumbled before dropping off completely.

“Got it, husband o’ mine,” Tony said, tracing the sharp line of Loki’s cheekbone with his thumb. “And honest to all you guys, I’ll try not to blow this.”

* * *

Loki felt slightly nervous that he had not at an earlier time booked reservations at an inn, as he and Tony had discussed, and yet it seemed any inn his husband might have enjoyed had filled far in advance of his ringing to inquire for rooms—so far out not even Tony’s gold could overcome the obstacle.

When he began his further internet searches, the name “Clay Brook” had struck him as dull and uninteresting, and yet the photographs showed the place golden and glowing on the side of its mountain, in the centre of its snowy wilderness, like the flame-lit meadhalls of his youth.

He hoped with all his heart it would the latter, a place of brilliant magic and good memories, not the mundane former, in this last golden time they might have together. Hela, brilliant yet not always wise, believed she and Jöri would be home in time to celebrate Christmas, just as she believed she had concealed from him that which lay ahead.

Loki felt less confident: he understood the Allfather as she did not, and there would now be no Frigga present in these days to temper his selfish whims.

He found himself missing his mother so painfully he wanted to weep. True, she had not been perfect, yet neither had he—that was the great discovery about being grown oneself, one discovered just how imperfect one was capable of being, and just how many missteps one made with one’s younglings, despite all intentions for the good. Why had he been so hard with her? Why had he allowed the last words he ever spoke to be so unkind?

“Babe?” Tony’s arm rested behind his shoulders, drawing him close. Tony’s face, slightly blurry in his vision, was open and kind. “What’s up, sweetheart?”

Loki blotted his eyes on his sleeve, giving a small, shallow laugh. “Nonsense only. Missing my mum.”

“I wish I could have met her,” Tony said.

“I wish that as well.” Loki blotted again. “We are registered?”

“Yup, and you sure know how to pick ‘em, Babe. This place is fan-frickin’-tastic! Do you really think you can teach me to ski?”

Loki brushed his husband’s lips with his thumb, then leaned in to kiss them, warm and soft as the summer plums of his youth, and as sweet to him.

“I shall love you always, best-belovéd Anthony, heart of my heart.”

“Loki, _hjarta hjarta minn_ ,” Tony responded tenderly.

Loki could not help himself, his eyes over-spilled. He clung to his husband until Jöri, pinned asleep between their bodies in the third seat, awoke and started poking at them to be set free.

“Ow! Ow! Dad! _Pabbi_! Let me out, you’re squishing me!”

They parted, breaking into laughter.

“Take this young one indoors and warm him,” Loki said, still chuckling. “And Hela. Mighty Fen and I shall unload our baggage. We feel not the cold so keenly. Help me first bring in the greater cooler, however. There is within a soup Mrs. Ransome made for our supper, that may be warmed, and bread ready for browning. You will build us also a fire, yes?”

Tony paused to kiss him again with his summer warmth. “There, that’s to tide you over. Don’t freeze off anything important.”

“Impossible husband!” Loki called after him. He unloaded the vehicle quickly enough, on his own, deciding the chill would be too intense even for Fen, the one he could not help but think of as his youngest. After, he sat a while on the edge of the porch, a great field of snow sleeping down and to the left. He’d requested a hall on the edge of things, where noise would not so greatly trouble the sensitive ears of his family, or the golden glowing lights of the resort fade his view of the stars.

The constellation of The Horse rode high in the night sky, filling him with longings for that which might never be.

 _Someday, someday,_ Loki thought. _Someday, Sleip, it may be. Do not ever imagine that I have forgotten you, my brave one, my sweet one. Would that you were with us this night._

He wept again, then, for only as long as he would allow himself the indulgence, beneath the brilliant horse-stars, then dried his eyes so thoroughly they might never have been wet, and went indoors to join his dear ones.

Once they had been fed, bathed and dressed snugly in pyjamas, he and Tony allowed their younglings to turn to the _Jul_ tree. Only Loki could reach to set the silver star at the top, and he also hung a few gold and silver baubles in the upper branches, but after he sprawled on the sofa with his head on Tony’s lap, sipping the mulled cider his husband had set to simmer earlier, watching their children flit about, painstaking and busy with their delightful chore.

Tony tucked a blanket around his shoulders. “You’re still frickin’ shivering babe. I thought the whole point of marrying a _Jötunn_ was that I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about sticking you with the chilly outdoor chores.”

“And so your plot is revealed, Loki murmured, snuggling gloriously close into his husband’s warmth. The thousands of white lights on the tree blurred into a star field in his sight, the pale, mirrored baubles flashed brilliance.

“You have done a superlative job, sweetlings, and you may have one gift each on this evening." He glanced up at Tony, who smiled and nodded.

“Yup, these are your _Jul_ presents, from _Pabbi_ and each other."

“We open them early in this year only because we know Hela and Jöri make a journey to the Realm Eternal in the evening of Monday, and will not be returned at the usual time. Our other gifts we shall share when they come home for Christmas, a holiday I much anticipate, which we shall celebrate in the tower with all we love around us, and all shall be well, my darling ones.”

“And all shall be well,” the kids intoned, Hela and Jör shooting unto one another-- _You told!—no, you told!_ \--expressions.

“No one told,” Loki informed them. “I am your _Pabbi_ , and I know that which affects my dear ones. Now, for whom is the first gift? For our Empress?” Already she held a plain-appearing box between her hands.

“Silly, _Pabbi_! It’s for you, from Uncle Thor.” She kissed his cheek as she passed him the package. “Return of the Light, _Pabbi_.”

“Return of the Light, best-beloved Hela.” Loki turned the box over and over, smiling at his brother’s scrawlings, clumsy runes of fortune and protection mixed in with block-printed English words: For Your _Jul_ Tree. LOVE!!! OPEN EARLY!!!

Loki shook his head, thinking, my brother is an idiot, loving him all the more. “Would you help me with it, younglings?"

Once the children had savaged open the box, Hela read, then handed Loki a note. _Forever My Dearest Brother Loki_ , it read.

_Nine black puppies to hang on your Yule Tree. NOTICE not all-black, though, so not an acceptable sacrifice to All-You-Know-Who (my beloved Lady Jane Foster says real puppies never acceptable for sacrifice UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES), therefore an offering to YOU (!!!), dearest brother, also to dearest brother-by-law Tony, Son of Stark and Most Epic and Worthy-of-Sagas Niece and Nephews (!!!). NOTICE presence of Satan hats renders mostly-black puppies also worthy decoration for incorrectly-dated celebration of Christian man-god’s birth!!!_

_P.S. Thank you for letting me call you brother again. As my brother you live always in my heart!!!_

_With much love,_

_Your loving brother always, Thor_

Loki passed the note into Tony’s hands and, laughing, allowed Jӧri and Fen drag him to his feet. Together they hung the nine not-entirely-black puppies in Santa hats on their Yule tree, Alsatians and Newfoundlands, Boston Terriers and Pugs and Rottweilers, stung on gold or scarlet ribbons, no sacrifice to a distant, cruel Allfather, but a real reminder of his brother’s caring for his family, his love for him.

 _I love you greatly, Thor, best of brothers_ , Loki sent, _And offer my thanks for the nine puppies._

He felt a faint, surprised joy as his mind touched Thor’s. Clearly, Thor had not expected Loki to reach him all the way in New Mexico. Loki half-surprised himself that he had not failed in the sending... He held the connection tenderly, allowing Thor to feel his steadfast love, feeling Thor’s love in return.

The rest of his carefully-chosen gifts did not matter much, excepting only that Jöri at last had his book, and the stars shone in his eyes.

On other days, on other nights, there was laughter, the bright snow, skiing, long walks on the forest trails. There were good meals eaten before the fire, and, when the children slept, Tony warm in his arms, himself in Tony’s warmth.

As all golden days do, they passed far, far more quickly than ordinary time.

And were gone.


	8. Aquavit and Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki is caught unawares and betrayed by a trusted friend.
> 
> ***Potential triggers here! This is where the chapter earns its rating, and while it only deals with the prelude and aftermath, some may find the events as described upsetting as (occult trappings aside) similar assaults have happened to far, far too many people, myself included.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First produced in the 1400's, Aquavit (aka akvavit or akevitt) is a spirit distilled from grain and potatoes, and flavored with several different herbs, the main spice being either caraway or dill. Linie Aquavit is cured in the hold of a ship as it crosses the equator at least twice (you can look online to see where your bottle has traveled, and aboard which ship).

* * *

Loki enjoyed his office at NYU, its brick outer walls and odd shape, because it was tucked into a corner of the Arts and Sciences Building where the architect appeared to have gone at the very least temporarily mad. The room possessed five windows, no two of them the same size, shape or architectural style. Bookshelves of a height with the wainscoting, all stuffed with books, ran around half the room. Loki considered this his “overflow area” of books he dared not bring home, because Tony loved anything captured electronically, a thousand books, nay, ten thousand held in a contraption the size of a piece of paper, and refused to acknowledge that part of a book’s beauty lay in its touch, its texture, its smell, the joy of a large and lovely book laid open across one's lap, that one might become lost within the wonder of its pages.

Ah, beloved, pragmatic Tony and his machines! Some things must be understood by the heart, as they became pale and meaningless when merely  explained.  Loki took it as a small victory that when Tony read and loved his own books, he immediately wished for them as printed volumes to best enjoy their beauty--if, in fact, they held beauty in their own right, rather than as a thing made by one beloved, however temporarily.

Loki’s office held, beside the books, a sturdy desk, an excellent office chair, his university computer that Tony had shielded for him secretly, so that his _seiðr_ , such as it was in these days, would not “fry” the circuitry in an unwatchful moment. He kept several healthy plants atop his bookshelves (Tony did not care much for houseplants at home) a small refrigerator and microwave, an electric kettle, games for the children when they visited him at work, a comfortable sofa and a warm woolen carpet upon the floor. All the colors were autumnal and soothing to his senses.

He might easily have lived here in a pinch, and had often taken shelter within when he’d felt suddenly unwell when running—it was one of the reasons he took many of his runs within the campus grounds.

Just now his head pounded, and Loki rested his elbows atop his desk, massaging his temples with his fingertips, yet he knew the pain's source lay deep within his heart, with the emotions he strove to restrain and not reveal, rather than being caused by any ailment of the body.

He had cleared his schedule to leave early for home, and yet he did not want to go, to face _fjandinn_ Heimdall, to choke upon the _ergi_ tears he could not help but shed, to bid farewells to his dear ones, unable to speak a word as Odin’s lapdog tore his sweetlings away from their home.

The children would not complain at the separation, because his never-Father had sworn to harm him.  Loki could not fight the Allfather's will because, if the children's did not acquiesce and come without struggle, they would still be taken, and Odin would do them harm.

And so, by their dear love for one another, all found themselves trapped within the Allfather's web.

Tony blamed him for this, Loki knew he did, despite the sweet fantasy of their holiday in Vermont, despite all words spoken to the contrary--as if Loki had been at liberty to choose his own parent. 

Odin knew power a thousand times greater than Tony's sire, Howard Stark. Did Tony actually believe he might, all things being equal, have gone against his father and won?

Loki had already, in the previous night, faced a dreadful scene with Hela, begging her to stay despite the Allfather’s commands, even though they both knew well the consequences. Telling her she ought not to be so impressed with her own abilities, not to make mistakes of pride such as he had made in his youth.

Poor Jöri had been sick with nerves nearly all through the night, and Loki had sat up with him, trying to soothe away the unsootheable, cradling his small son, singing to him, telling him stories, stroking his soft, silvery hair. He’d been kept home from school today, with Thor to watch him, whilst a stony-faced Hela traveled forth on her own to Stark Academy, saying goodbyes to no one.

As he slumped at his desk in utter misery, a jaunty rap sounded upon the office’s oaken door, followed by the opening of the door itself—not a mere crack, but the portal flung open entirely to reveal a great bear of a man with a shaggy pelt of silver-gold hair. “Loki, _min venn_!” he boomed. “I heard you would be leaving early today . Are you not well?”

“I am quite well, Nels Lars,” Loki answered, gesturing to the larger of the two chairs that faced his desk. “My eldest two leave tonight to visit my… ah… father in Iceland. Father is a powerful man in his way, and blood has long been bad between us. I do not wish for my dear ones to go, and yet it may not be avoided.”

“Are they not your children? Is it not your wishes--and Tony's, of course-- that determine their fate?” His visitor gave a great, booming laugh, though Loki read not so much humor in the cast of his mind as he did concern and great sympathy. As ever, he could not discern a single word or image within his friend's mind. “It is unlike you, my dear trickster," the professor continued, "Not to get your own way in such things. You’re usually quite the magician.”

“Please, Nels Lars.” Loki laid his throbbing head upon his folded arms. “If only I was truly the god of mischief, endowed with the powers of _seiðr_ and guile, instead of a lowly professor of words. That not being the case, this visit is… dynastic. And unavoidable.”

“ _Min stakkars unge venn_.” The older man quieted his tremendous voice, resting his vast paw over the back of Loki’s neck, the heat of it seeping soothingly into his skin. “My poor young friend, truly you aren’t very well, as you haven't been well for some time, and I am sorry to have disturbed you in your grief and anxiety. I’d only dropped by to tell you the document we’ve awaited has appeared ahead of schedule--the  Navnløse Stone document, the one which concerns your namesake? I’m unable to contain my excitement, and I’d thought you might like to share my first look. Your abilities with the finer points of translation are so far superior to mine.”

Loki raised his head, gesturing to say, _No, not at all, my friend_.

Professor Nelson let loose a second great laugh, clapping Loki’s shoulder. “Come, come, _min kjære gutt_ , none of your false modesty! Your gifts _are_ far superior, my brilliant young friend, and you know it well!” He smiled widely, and even his grin was boisterous. He was, Loki considered, much like Thor, only magnified by a power of twenty.

“Just a little peek, my dear Loki. Just a taste. The matter of an hour only. Less than an hour.”

And so, Loki found himself riding a lift into the depths of the archives with Professor Nels Lars Nelson of the Department of Scandinavian Studies.

All here was stringently controlled: light, air, temperature, humidity, in ways Loki had always found he both liked and was disturbed by. Conditions were ideal for magic, and yet the balance of everything tore at his inherent need for the chaos that fueled his magic’s fire—his creativity, as he tended to call it these days.

In a dim, silent antechamber they were issued badges and white cotton gloves, along with grey filter masks to cover their faces, by an equally grey-haired and all-but-silent attendant. This keeper of the archives cautioned them not to sneeze, cough or touch the document, and to handle its tray as carefully as they were able.

Both Loki and Professor Nels Lars Nelson nodded, the warning an essential part of the ritual, but scarcely necessary. Such artifacts were their livelihood, painstaking care their second nature.

“From which site, again, was the document recovered?” Loki asked, as they passed along the underlighted corridor, knowing that the mere existence of such artifact of the Northmen's elder times was an entirely singular thing.

“Upstate from here, oddly enough. An isolated boat-burial of a Chieftain called Navnløse. The parchment most likely survived through all the years only by having been sealed within a cylinder of gold.”

“Nameless?” Loki frowned. “Why the pomp of a ship burial and yet no name? Does that not defeat the purpose?”

“Beyond that, the graves of four _Völgi_ lay around the ship's edges, one at each of cardinal points of the compass, their wands pointing outward, as if to protect the chieftain from darkness approaching.”

Loki laughed softly. "Your imagination runs away from you, Nels Lars, my friend.” And yet the presence of the _Völgi_ graves troubled him. _Völgi_ were itinerant _seiðr_ witches, repositories of news, healing, arcane knowledge. The arrangement his fellow professor described did speak to him of guarding, but the keeping of something in or something out he could not have said.

“Does it?” Professor Nelson gave a more subdued version of his booming laugh. “Ah, here we are, Loki: L-1047.”

All along that corridor stretched cabinets of many wide, sturdy, shallow drawers, made to contain ancient documents in the best possible state of preservation. Together, they slid out the drawer in question. Its contents reeked of earth, tannins, decayed organic matter, most of all of old, old magic. Despite his mask, Loki could scarcely breathe. He felt the heaviness of Professor Nelson’s hand on his back, steadying him.

The letters, faded brown on a background of dull grey (parchment not fashioned from the skin of a sheep, Loki's senses revealed to him, but of some fiercer beast--perhaps the skin of a wolf?), faint splashes of dun showed here and there, where once some image of a god or a sun might have been.

“Are you able to read it, Nels Lars?” Loki asked.

The runes seemed nearly to leap out at him. They said Laufey was his mother (or, at least, his “dam”) and his father was some unknown called Fάrbauti (hard striker), and that he, Loki (fire), was engendered when Fάrbauti (aka, the lightning-that-proceeds-thunder) struck Laufey (tinder, or underbrush, or a bed of dry leaves). And that was why he was a god of chaos, because he wasn’t a safe, domestic fire, he was wildfire, ravenous, random, everywhere at once.

He had told a number of stories to the Northmen in his day, but Loki could not remember ever telling that one. Even taken as metaphorical, it revealed to him nothing, really. He still couldn’t say whether the extremely masculine-looking _Jӧtunn_ he’d slain in his own personal lightning-strike of rage, pain and soul-destroying denial had been his mother or his father, who his other, presumably _Æsir_ , parent had been, and who it was continued to meddle with his already muddled lineage by sending him genetic updates piggy-backed onto childhood viruses.

And why did they do it? _Revenge? Mindless cruelty? Scientific inquiry?_

Loki liked to deal the cards. He liked to be the gamemaster, because whatever motives others might ascribe to him, his wits came nearest to a reliable way to keep himself safe. His dearest Kurt understood that feeling of sleeping always with one eye open, of knowing the world around him turned without sympathy toward his kind.

Shaking, feeling sick, though he couldn’t have said why, he told Nels Lars what he’d read. The big man nodded, looking thoughtful, and then seemed to notice the state Loki found himself in.

“Come with me to my office, dear friend,” Professor Nelson said, pushing the drawer gently home. His massive arm circled Loki’s shoulders as they walked, steadying him, and Loki was frankly grateful for the touch, bemused as he was as to why the document he’d viewed had affected him so profoundly.

He found himself ushered through the door of Nels Lars’s book-cluttered, cave-like den, sinking into one of a pair of squashy leather-upholstered chairs, a small, delicate glass being pushed into his hand.

“Water of life, to steady you,” his friend said. “ _Linie_ Aquavit, a new bottle for a new  _Jul_. It has cured by crossing the equator twice in the hold of the S.S. Amundson.”

“Named after a well-known Northman of recent times,” Loki said, feeling entirely at sea himself. He loved aquavit, the herb/flower/spice fragrance, the fiery amber burn of the liquor down his throat, the subtle glow in his stomach as he drank.

Slowly, his muscles loosened.  He slipped lower within the embrace of the well-padded chair. He and his friend toasted one another with a second glass, and then as he drank (perhaps because he had, of late, taken so little food to cushion the spirit), the edges of the room began to soften, a tingling to spread up his arms and legs. For a few seconds only, he might have dozed, his eyes falling shut.

When they opened again, full dark lay beyond the windows. Music, of a sort Loki could not remember hearing since the early days of his youth, the days in which he had met Myrddin, played softly at some distance. Candles burned upon every surface, pale yellow candles that smelled both of sweet honey and some bitter herb.

"Nels Lars?" he attempted to call out, for his head swam and a sense of unease swept over him--worry as to the time that might have passed by, making him too late to give farewell to his dear ones, anxiety also for the state of his body and for what the older man--surely his friend?--might have planned.

His lips would not move, neither would tongue, nor arms nor legs.  His eyes might shift by the smallest part of their orbits, and by that he saw that the small glass had slipped though his fingers to lie in shards upon the bare floor.  He saw also that the rich, warm carpet that normally covered over the bare cement had been thrown back against one wall, and a thousand signs painted in red.

"It isn't all your blood," Nels Lars (not his friend, it appeared, never his friend) assured Loki. "Other ingredients, fell and potent, are mixed in, and so a god is bound."

His large hand pressed with great force over Loki's eyes, shutting out all light, and now, when he ventured to scry within the fastness of Nels Lars's mind, he found only endless, echoing darkness.

"Sleep now," the old man said, and helpless to resist, Loki fell into senselessness.

* * *

Loki woke to grey light, like the first light of dawn, shivering and naked upon the floor, in the chilly office from which every sign of its former occupant had fled.

No carpet lay in folds against the wall, no signs marked the bare concrete (though Loki smelled them still, along with a honey-sweet odor that roiled his stomach).  No chairs remained, no desk, no shelves or cabinets--even the lamps and books had gone, leaving only a bare bulb overhead, and a pool of his own blood spreading around him.

Slowly, Loki raised himself until he sat upright.  Harm had been done to him, grievous harm, though he could not, as yet, describe what that harm might be, besides that his stomach felt sick and his head pounded.  Only then did he feel a slow trickle down his belly, and looked to see a complex rune map wide as the spread of his hand gouged deep into the flesh, stretching from below his lowest ribs to just above the peaked bones of his hips, so prominent now beneath the white of his skin.

He barely managed to turn aside to vomit, then to vomit, emptily, again.  Unable to do more than drag himself mere inches across the floor, he sat shaking, his body curled into itself for half an hour or more, too weak to move further, terrified that the wicked old man he’d thought was his friend would return, more afraid of what would happen, what he himself might do--given sufficient time to collect himself, and not caught trusting and unaware--if Nelson did return.

Tony and Director Coulson both forbade him to injure, much less kill, any Midgardian, but Loki desired with the whole of his heart not merely to cleanly slay Professor Nels Lars Nelson, but to entirely to destroy him, to set the very atoms of his being adrift upon the winds.

He felt the old man's filthy fingerprints befouling all his skin, as if he might never again be washed clean, and he ached, also, in a way he had never felt before, with a deep-thrusting, nauseating pain that ran up between his legs, through his secret place and into his belly.

 _He was my friend_ , a small, weak, lonely part of Loki grieved, to which the coldest part of him answered, _He was never your friend. Never. He only wished to take some part of you for his use._

 _Oh, gods!_ It struck Loki (so suddenly and fiercely he staggered to his feet), that this was the day, indeed, of Director Coulson, or worse than that, far past the hour!

The importance these meetings had been made clear to him many times, that he must not for any reason be late, and that to miss even one such appointment would be seen as a return to evil ways, and would result in an imprisonment from which no Minister of any land would be allowed to seek his release.

He must not… He must never… Loki's head spun and his stomach clenched and he fell again to the cold floor.

Oh, by the gods, he would be imprisoned, he would be sent back, and everything would be taken for all time, every beloved thing lost to him. Beyond even that, he had betrayed Tony, his love, though he had never, never meant to do so.

The rune burned upon Loki's belly and his head filled both with fire and with the noises of cruel hilarity. He pressed his hands against his ears in a useless effort to dull the torment, but none of it, none of it could ever be shut away from him.

No matter how he wished for it, no matter how he pleaded, the brief near-happiness he had known on Midgard ended here, and with it, all hope fled.


	9. Strike Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heimdall arrives to take Jori and Hela, and Tony loses it in a big, big way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki's referencing the movie _Master and Commander_ (2003), for which ten days of filming took place at sea on board _The Rose_ , a modern reproduction of the 18th century post ship _HMS Rose_. The ship has since been renamed _HMS Surprise_ in tribute to her movie role. The full quote (spoken by Capt. Jack Aubrey) is "Do you not know that in the service one must always choose the lesser of two weevils." The pun is based on a quote by Thomas á Kempis (1380–1471), in _The Imitation of Christ_ : “Of two evils the lesser is always to be chosen.”
> 
> Weevils are a type of small beetle from the _Curculionoidea_ superfamily.
> 
> Grey Goose is a "tasting" vodka distilled in France, where it's made with spring water filtered through Champagne limestone and soft winter wheat grown in Picardy.

* * *

Loki had gone to a cold place, where nothing could be felt, heard or seen.

He did not care for the cold particularly, but as Tony would almost certainly have said, with some variation of wording, it was the lesser of two evils (which made him recall, briefly, that film of tall ships and the sea, which he had viewed in the company of Thea and Francis Ransome--who having been involved with the sailing of that lovely and intricate vessel, _The Rose_ , told him, afterward, interesting facts about the filming--and the jest the ship's captain made about choosing the lesser of two weevils.

Weevils might indeed be considered an evil, as they were pests that spoiled the sailors' rations, but the true fun of the jest existed in the similar sounds of the two words. Loki, who had loved wordplay once, found the pun very amusing, and Thea, who he counted among those he loved best, though Tony perceived her as only a skilled servant, had been amused by his amusement. Francis, a large bluff man with a superlative beard and mustache, like a legendary pirate of old, had smiled at both of them.

Only such events lay in the past now, and would not be sufficient to sustain him, going onward.

Far away, after some time had vanished, a woman's voice said, in tones of distress, " _Oh, honey. Oh, honey_."

Loki remembered that he harbored a passionate dislike for honey, but knew not why that might be.

Some further time later, a strong hand closed around Loki's left arm, another reached round his back, supporting him gently as he slumped in in absolute dejection, then lifting him to his feet. He staggered, and might have fallen again, except that the hands supported his weight. A thing of warmth, though without weight or texture, was wrapped round his body, and a deeper voice than the woman's exhorted him to walk a short distance before he might be allowed to lie again, this time upon a surface both higher and less chilling to his bones than the one on which he lay before.

Above him, the two voices held much discourse, though Loki could make no sense of the words they spoke.

In time, other voices joined them, equally unfamiliar, speaking phrases of a questioning tone, but whether those voices required answers of him, Loki could not have said. At any rate, he could not answer, because the words meant nothing.

Again time disappeared and returned again. Loki felt that clothes had been placed upon his body. Water was put to his lips, but promptly vomited up again and, that concluded, other hands, many of them, lifted him to a surface that rolled away, bearing him to another place.

The only thing in any of these events that carried the least meaning was that a warm hand closed round his, and held fast, an anchor that kept him him from falling.

* * *

“Maybe he saw it as a chance to do a runner back to Asgard,” Bruce said. “I know Loki claims this Heimdall guy is no friend of his, but it’s not like he left home willingly in the first place. Maybe they had the whole thing planned and the kids never were going to his dad. Maybe…”

Tony excused himself to go to the bathroom, where he had a bottle of Grey Goose stashed in the toilet reservoir, an arrangement that was maybe more-than-slightly gross but at least allowed easy access.  He slammed down the vodka from the cap of the mouthwash bottle--four or five capfulls in as many seconds--the minty freshness adding an extra piquancy.

After, he sucked in a series of long, slow breaths, letting his stomach settle and the shakes relax out of his hands.

He’d meant to get through this without drinking, and his resolve had even lasted past the time Loki was expected to come home from his meeting with Director, even past the time Phil had called to report his husband as a no-show.

Generous Phil agreed to wait until after the kids were gone to file his Escapee Alert Bulletin on Loki.

“He’ll come,” Tony assured him. “He takes your arrangement seriously. It’s just… you know… the kids. He’s pretty distraught Phil. What does the University say?”

What the university said was that his husband had left the archives at just past three-thirty, in the company of Professor Nels Lars Nelson, from the Department of Scandinavian Studies. Professor Nelson's door had been locked, the master key that was supposed to open all the offices on that floor wasn't working for some reason, but no, they wouldn't break down the door. No light or sound came from inside, leading the Powers that Be to assume the Professor had long since ambled home to his cave. Loki's own office just looked like Loki's office, no signs of struggle, no signs of anything unusual.

Neither Nelson nor Loki could be reached by cell phone.

 _Gods, Lok_ , Tony thought, _What have you gotten yourself into this time?_

He didn’t know what to think. All he could do was flash back to that disaster of a dinner, the Professor like a bigger, blonder (in his going-gray way) and louder Thor (or possibly--and this made Tony shudder--Baldr), with an air of benevolent geniality that Tony didn't trust an inch).  He'd been less than amused by Nelson's dull stories, unfunny jokes and, most of all, with the way he'd been so goddamn handsy with Loki.

Despite Tony, Loki's newly-wedded husband, being right the fuck _there_.

Much as he'd tried to convince himself not to read anything weird into the situation, to tell himself the whole thing was just Loki being Loki, ultimate touch-magnet that he was, the entire encounter had thing still felt beyond hinky.

Tony seriously hadn't appreciated, after the fact, either Loki's mockery of his word choice or his "I'm right and you're wrong" mentality.

The kinder part of Tony's nature told him to get off his high horse. “Nels Lars,” as Loki called him, fell, like Logan, into under-parented Loki’s need to be treated with affection by masterful older men. Maybe Tony even fell (just a little bit) into that category himself. _Poor Loki_ , that kinder self reminded him, _So old and yet so young, always looking for the dad who won’t reject him_.

Loki wouldn’t mean to do anything wrong, but what if there had been rejection, and it occurred when he was already so off-kilter? Worse yet, what if that fatherly attention turned to something else? To unwanted attentions of the physical kind? Loki would lose it. He'd seriously lose it/

But what if those same attentions weren't unwanted? What if Loki saw the chance for a little payback, a chance to give Tony a taste of his own medicine?

 _Fuck_ , Tony thought, a slow-burning anger kindling in his gut.

About that moment, with Loki MIA and Tony seething, Odin's representative made his appearance, stepping out of a blast of rainbow onto the terrace.  The guy was huge, he had fucking golden eyes, and he didn't show the least emotion as he took hold of stony-faced Hela and shrieking, puking Jöri.

Tony was, to put it mildly, beside himself. He fell to his knees on the landing strip, hardly able to breathe, Jör’s piteous cries of, “Daddy! Fen! _Pabbi_! _Pabbi_!” ringing in his ears as the big man cuffed him on the side of his head face, growling, “Comport yourself as a prince, young Jörmungandr Baldrson,”

Tony continued to gasp as, with another flash of light and a weird sucking sound, the rainbow vanished, leaving only its bright after image to pulse briefly in his vision, then nothing, only New York’s dull, cloud-occluded stars above.

Still on his knees, he shivered, alone, until Bruce, now accompanied by Kurt, came along to raise him to his feet. Between them, they walked him two or three times around the perimeter of the terrace, until he'd returned to something like coherency. Bruce and Kurt were probably the two kindest, best guys he knew, but Tony still would have cheerfully chucked them over the edge if it meant he could have his kids back.

“It’s a father's love,” Kurt said, as he and Bruce conveyed Tony, now shivering harder than ever, back inside the penthouse. “I understand entirely. I love them too, but your pain must be... unimaginable"

Kurt had been crying, Tony noticed, even through the haze of agony and denial that seemed to fill every nook and cranny of his mind and body. His dark fur was splotched even darker with what had to be tears.

Logan, it appeared, had also stopped by for this not-exactly-fun occasion, and the minute Kurt had determined Tony could stand on his own he made a beeline toward the older man, Logan holding him so tightly Kurt’s ribs creaked.

Tony, on the other hand, instead of seeking out the company of friends, sleepwalked to the bar, pouring himself a modest drink—Glenmorangie this time, and only a couple fingers. He could always get more, and tonight of all nights no one would judge him.

His head and chest filled now with the strangest feeling—not pain, exactly, but the sensation of everything inside him being screwed tighter and tighter and tighter, until it had to snap or explode or maybe just shrivel into absolutely nothing at all, taking Tony with it. He couldn’t think or breathe properly, and only the booze helped him overcome the sensation of wanting to claw off his own skin, something he’d felt too often in recent weeks, along with those damned scritching centipedes inside his head.

Weirdly, he hadn’t felt that sensation once in Latveria, or up at Clay Brook. All he’d felt for Loki was love, adoration even —never once that he'd be much happier in life if he could just beat his husband repeatedly over the head with a frying pan.

"Kiddo's asleep," Clint said (and when Clint arrived?). "Not happy, but asleep." He gave Tony a strange kind of look before drifting toward the fridge, where he helped herself to one of Tony's beers.

“What?” Tony snapped.

Clint popped the beer's cap and sucked in a long drink. “Nothing. Only, you look kinda…”

“Desolate? Stressed? Like I wanna to murder my asshole husband for bailing and leaving me alone with this? All of the above?”

“Tony, that’s enough,” Kurt put in, just the slightest edge of sharpness entering his soft, kind voice. “We all understand you are upset, under terrible stress. Every one of us here..." He took a quick, sideways glance at Clint, but apparently decided not to exclude him, or Bruce either, for whom his following statement was certainly debatable. "We also love your children with our whole hearts."

“And now a few words from my husband’s other husband,” Tony snarked.

Kurt muttered something in German that Tony didn’t catch, staring down at his bare, blue feet. When Logan touched his back, as if to comfort him, Kurt only shook his head. At any other time the young mutant’s obvious sadness would have saddened Tony too--he normally felt genuinely fondness for Kurt, and fully acknowledged the major role he'd played in keeping his family alive and together--but just now Kurt's presence only pissed him off further, all the more so as Kurt bamfed outside to balance on the safety rail with his tail trailing dejectedly onto the concrete, while the wind whipped up his curly hair.

Bruce fetched more beer from the fridge, a second one for Clint, who'd already finished his first. “Logan?” He waggled a bottle by its neck. “How about you?”

“Nah.” The stocky mutant pulled on his shearling-lined coat, tugging his stupid Stetson low over his eyes. How long had he lived in New York and he still dressed like a cowboy? “I’m goin’ to the University. See if I can’t pick up a scent-trail. Kurt’s gonna try sendin' again. Someone do me a favor, okay? Make sure Fuzzy doesn’t freeze his furry ass off out there?”

“Uh... before you do." Clint's face twisted up in a weird expression.

"What the hell are you doing here anyway, Katniss?" Tony poured himself another drink, then stumbled to the couch, sinking back into the  cushions. He knew he ought to have been scared, worried, whatever—even overwhelmed by the flood of memories made within the comfort of these same fucking cushions, but all he could experience was his roiling, bubbling anger.

It occurred to Tony that maybe he could have suited up and zoomed around the city a bit before he started drinking.

He just didn't want to.

"I told Phil to hold off," Clint answered, his face scrunching up into a different odd expression. "I picked up... I dunno. It's weird.  Kinda empty and..." He didn't clarify either whatever the hell he was talking about in the first place, or what he thought it meant.  "Anyway.  I told Phil to cool his jets."

Logan removed himself to the terrace with ninja-like quickness. Tony saw him say something to Kurt, then, seconds later, the flash as Kurt bamfed again.

Tony didn't notice after that (pr care, actually) who stayed or who left. He thought Bruce stayed, maybe, partly out of friendship and loyalty, and partly to nag him about his drinking.  He dropped off to sleep right there on the couch, falling almost at once into a series of evil dreams that filled his head with image after image of his husband’s freakishness, his lies, his scorn and his unfaithfulness.

On a certain level, Tony knew the dreams weren’t true, absolutely weren't true, that Loki hadn't done, or been, any of those things--but he allowed his heart to believe them anyway.

He woke, vile-tempered, and with his head pounding, to Kurt’s gentle shaking.

“Tony. Tony. Wake up. Loki’s been found! Director Coulson’s bringing him home.”

Tony growled, but the German just shook harder. “Tony, clean yourself up. I’ll make coffee. Only hurry!”

“Fuck you, Kurt,” Tony growled again, only to have the tip of his friend’s tail rise up and strike him hard across the face. The blow hurt like hell. It also made his ears ring more than they were ringing already from his hangover

Tony flailed awkwardly, trying to smack the evil thing away before it could swing around to hit him again.

“Dad?” a kid-voice called from the distance, audible even over the bells in his head. “ _Pabbi_? Hela? Jör? Fen wants Jör! FEN WANTS JÖRI!”

“C’mon, little man,” he heard Logan answer down the corridor, in his usual gruff-but-calm voice. “Let’s get ya ready to face yer day. We’re gonna have breakfast at McDonalds. Ssh, don’t tell _Pabbi_!”

Distracted for the moment, Tony's son giggled. “Fen tell! Fen tell _Pabbi_.”

“You’re gonna get me in so much trouble, little man.”

Fen giggled again.

“You can’t rat me out to Boss _Pabbi_ , big guy, if you don’t get ready to go right away.”

 _Fuck this_ , Tony thought, and dragged himself off for a half-assed shower and to throw on some sweats.

He came downstairs again to find Logan and Fen heading out the door and Kurt pouring coffee. He set Tony’s cup on the table and retreated to the top of highest of Loki’s glass-fronted bookcases, his tail hanging down and twitching now and then.

“Well, isn’t this jolly?” Tony said. “Know what we need? Donuts. With sprinkles, maybe?”

“ _Gott in Himmel_ , Tony, please,” Kurt pleaded, “Please show Loki your best love and gentleness when he arrives? He was harmed, and for his magic, it seems. He knows he missed the children’s leaving.”

“So my boy toy got himself hurt out catting around, when he should have been here with his family? Oh, my poor baby!” Tony didn’t know where the words came from, only that they rose in him like vomit, even after all his worry, even after the loss of their kids. It wiped out the last lingering joy of their beautiful vacation, and the only things he now felt were hatred and rage. He wanted to stick a knife into Loki’s guts and twist it.

“He wasn’t fucking here, the useless turd,” Tony spat. “He can’t even stand up to his dickwad relations for his own kids. The liar. The coward. The goddamn fucking piece of shit, cheating on me and thinking Tony Stark and would take it!”

“Do you speak of yourself in the third person?” Loki said faintly from just behind him.

“Oh, and that’s one of Prince Perfect’s pet peeves, isn’t it, that I talk like a normal guy? We mustn’t upset him, not us! Not us inferior beings.” Tony refused to turn, refused to look Loki’s way.

“I am not a prince. You all know as much. I am not a prince. Director, I am least of all. I am nothing. I would not claim to be anything more, but I will use no harsh words of my own, for it is the Ghost in the Wall doing this to my love. It is the machine!”

“Loki, calm down,” said Phil Coulson’s measured voice. “You’ve done nothing wrong and you’ll only feel worse if you get upset. Let Ms. Potts and Mr. Hogan take you down to Thor’s place. Have a rest while we take care of this. Dr. McCoy’s already on his way from Salem Center. He’ll look after you. Do you want Anastasia too?”

“But Tony… My Tony…”

The confusion and terror in his husband’s voice should have torn him to bits, but Tony was left feeling only disgust.

“I'm not sure this is the best place for you to be right now, my darling.” Pepper brushed past Tony with very coldest of her cold looks, and took a firm grip on Loki’s other hand, “Kurt will pack some things for you and you can stay at Thor’s until things get sorted.”

“May I have Thor? May I see my brother?” Loki asked weakly. "Thor believes me. It is J.A.R.V.I.S."

When Tony looked, Loki had gone ash-white, clearly on the edge of fainting.

Tony just laughed. “That’s right, work it. Work it, loverman, for the attention and the pity. It’s what you like best, isn’t it? By the way, those delusions aren't the best look on you. 'It is J.A.R.V.I.S.,' my ass.”

“ _þú ert ekkert öðruvísi en Óðni_ ,” Loki told him sadly—whatever the hell that meant.

“He said, 'You are no different from Odin.'” Kurt moved to Loki's other side, taking Phil's place. He gripped Loki’s arm tight, his tail whipping through the air like a snake about to strike, his four long fangs bared.

Tony laughed again, and blew him a kiss. “Oh, bravo! Bravo! Princess Beauty and her fucking beast!”

“Oh, Pepper, Kurt…” Loki took a series of staggering half-steps between them. His eyes rolled back and he would have dropped to his ass on the carpet, except that their friends supported him, preventing the fall.

Through the clicking and clacking in his ears, some unmeasured amount of time later, Tony heard Loki say, in a hoarse whisper, “Strike Two, Anthony. That was Strike Two.”


	10. Relationships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki despairs. Logan and Kurt encounter anti-mutant sentiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Svaðilfari is the father of Loki's son Sleipnir.
> 
> The Special Olympics, founded in 1968, is the world's largest sports organization for people (children and adults) with intellectual disabilities.
> 
> A fountain pen really can be ruined by being used by someone other than its rightful owner. They're touchy critters. Loki named his "Creativity."
> 
> Unstable molecule fabric, the fictional synthetic created by the Reed Richards (Mr. Fantastic of the Fantastic Four) is the default material for superhero costumes in the Marvel Universe. It first appeared in _Fantastic Four_ #6 (September, 1962).
> 
> The Bizarro World (aka Htrae, or "Earth" spelled backwards) is a cube-shaped planet introduced to the DC Universe in the early 60's. In more recent times, the term has come to mean a state of being in which everything is opposite to the way it should be.
> 
> Pepper's "Pretend Loki Sister" name Hreinmeja “Pipar” Friggasdottir Potts, is really just her own name, Virginia "Pepper" Aeserized.
> 
> Some German words and phrases: _Vielen Dank_ =many thanks; _ein Kerl_ =a guy; _vielleicht_ =maybe, perhaps.
> 
> Margali Szardos (Margali of the Winding Path)   
> gives Kurt an exact replica of Dante's _Inferno_ for his birthday in _X-Men Annual_ #1 (1980). Gee, thanks, Mom!
> 
> _Inspecting Carol_ is a 1991 comedy by Daniel J. Sullivan. The plot concerns a small theater company trying to keep their funding during budget cuts. The company learns that it will be inspected in order to receive grant money, and as it tries to put on a performance of _A Christmas Carol_ increasingly ridiculous things go wrong with the production.
> 
> Lingonberries taste something like a cross between blueberries and cranberries (sweet/tart), but are smallish and round like huckleberries.

* * *

"For god's sake, Lok," Tony called out into the dark of the terrace. "I was drunk and stressed.  I didn't mean any of it. Won't you please come inside before you freeze your shapely ass off?"

After a minute or so--minutes that seemed to stretch out to a painful eternity--Loki appeared out of the darkness, not _Jötunn_ but tinged blue with the cold, his eyes completely expressionless.  He looked like one of The Walking Dead before the rot really set in.

"I can make you tea," Tony offered, his own voice sounding weak and wheedling in his ears. "Do you want tea? It'll help warm you up."

Loki brushed past him. Once inside, he lowered himself, slowly and what looked like painfully, into one of the overstuffed chairs. A broken pattern of faint red lines marked the front of his pale green shirt, and Tony found himself unwilling to ask what they were, or where they'd come from.

"I'm glad you're home," Tony told his husband, in the same ineffectual voice. What the hell had happened to the Tony Stark he'd known?

"I did not wish to stay at my brother's flat without Thor at home," Loki said, his voice dull, nearly lifeless. "I told the others to depart also. Fen, if such a thing matters to you, has gone with Logan and Kurt."

"I didn't hear the elevator," Tony said, and instantly wanted to kick himself. Why make such a banal and pointless comment at such a clearly crucial moment?

"I teleported," Loki answered.

Of course he had, though Tony only realized his husband had returned by virtue of a sudden flare of green fire on the terrace.

Loki glanced up at Tony with that same dead-eyed look, seeing and not seeing.

"Tea?" Tony offered again.

"How does one forgive the unforgivable?" Loki asked, in a rhetorical kind of way--Tony wasn't even sure who his husband was talking to, him or some invisible friend. "I feel as I felt then..." his voice trailed away.

"When, babe?" Tony tried to modulate his own voice, to make it kinder, more sympathetic.

"After Svaðilfari," Loki answered, which told Tony exactly nothing.  He wasn't even sure that the word Loki spoke _was_ a word, instead of a series of random noises.

If it was in fact a word, Tony had no idea what that word meant.

"You do not pay attention. I have spoken of Svaðilfari before this. Now I would to bed," Loki added. "Hela's is best warded."

"Not ours? I mean, not with me? Or I could take one of the kid's rooms, if you want the big bed for yourself."

"Not with you," Loki told him.

"Just so I know... do you plan to stay mad at me forever?"

"I am not angry," Loki answered. "Merely... is bereft the word I seek? Yes, bereft." He picked himself up slowly from the chair. "You have chosen. I have been warned. What else remains to be said?"

"Okay, something that makes sense, for starters. Chosen what? What do you think I've chosen."

"It. Your Ghost in the Wall. That much is clear. Twice a hundred times I have explained, and yet, always, you choose not to listen. The Ghost warned me that war lay between us, and though I believed it not at that moment. I find now that I was mistaken."

"Say what? Babe, I don't get any of this. Besides which, you gave me three chances, but I've only had two."

"Will another matter? You offer excuses but neither reasons nor apologies." Loki's eyes met his then, bright and destructive as lasers. "If you wound me out of drunkenness, do not be drunken.  If 'stress' causes you to lash out, aim your ire toward another, and not your wedded husband.  It ought to have been your hand I felt in my despair, you who sought me out and found me, and yet it was Pepper.  Pepper, Tony, and Happy, not you."

It wasn't like Loki to be so direct--usually he'd dance around a subject, or maybe wax metaphorical. This time, between his words and those laser-beam eyes, Tony felt stripped down to the bone.

"Dammit, babe, I am sorry. You know I'm sorry."

"You are sorry I became angry. You are sorry to be chastised on the subject of your behavior. Are you sorry for the words you spoke? I am unable to believe so. I think that you will drink again, and be stressed again, and yet again such words will pour forth from your mouth, and again I shall be devastated. I can take not a minute more of this. I can take no more, do you hear?"

With that he left, the door to Hela's unoccupied room shutting behind him with an only-too-final sounding click.

"I do hear, Lok," Tony told the empty air. "Believe me, I do hear you."

"Interesting," J.A.R.V.I.S. said, through the electronic bee in Tony's ear. "Now what happens next?"

* * *

The third part of the big change, Tony’s Strike Three of Stupidity started with an idiot joke—or political statement, or piece of asshattery—on the part of a tall, towheaded waiter at a bar called _München_.

Despite the German theme, Tony always thought of the place as Munchkin, no matter how many times Kurt told him, _Munich! It means Munich!_

Maybe figuratively, if not literally, he liked fucking with Kurt every now or then. Or maybe it was just one of his duties as the god of mischief’s husband. Or maybe (to dig deep into the bitter truth) he was jealous of Kurt, and maybe always had been.

Not pretty, but there you go.

Kurt never failed to be good with Loki. Always so nice. So wise. So understanding. So supportive. So much less likely than himself to go batshit crazy for no earthly reason.

So goddamned fucking cuddly.

Tony had arranged to meet Kurt at  _München_   because: 1) Kurt had lovely manners, and if seized by the desire to suddenly strangle Tony with his strong and flexible tail, his native politeness would make him less likely to do so in public; 2) if Kurt had a mutant ability beyond teleportation, it was almost certainly that of making peace and, along with that, good guy that he was, Kurt would be the person most likely to forgive him; 3) Loki was oh-so-clearly not dealing, and if anybody could fix even a small part of Loki's pain, that person would be his BFF.

Kurt was trying to be there for Loki, to be someone Loki could rely on without question. He'd put aside any and all wedding planning for the moment and cut his X-duties to the bare minimum he could get away with, but he was still a full-time med student and teacher, and what he could give sure as hell wasn't everything Loki needed. So even Loki hadn’t seen as much of his best friend as he wanted, when under most circumstances, if you had one Blues Brother, you didn’t have to turn over that many rocks to find the other.

From whence, as Loki might well have said, came the jealousy, slight as it was.

Not that Tony’s favorite Blues Brothers were particularly under-rock-dwelling kind of guys, Kurt’s unfortunate eXie code-name aside.

Kurt said he hadn’t actually known what a nightcrawler was (the kind found in nature, under rocks) when Xavier stuck him with the moniker. He’d already spoken pretty decent English by the time he hit the States, but the names of boneless, earth-dwelling creatures, not even _Lumbricus terrestris_ in particular, hadn’t exactly been high on his study lists of vocab, and even if he had known the English word for _die Regenwürmer,_ being European, he would have learned “earthworm” anyway. Only Americans called earthworms nightcrawlers. They were weird that way.

So poor, naïve Kurt supposed it was an okay name for _ein Kerl_ who disappeared in the dark and, well, crawled on ceilings. Even Logan throwing a “ _Really, Chuck? Really_?” into the ring hadn’t clued him.

Kurt, also had been barely nineteen at the time, and both phenomenally excited to be living in America and overwhelmingly terrified, profoundly homesick for both Germany and the circus, so it took a while working through that to tumble to the fact his much-admired new mentor had just named him after a slimy creepy-crawly.

Shame on you, Professor X!

Maybe Kurt stood last on line on code-name day (most likely off making mischief of one kind or another prior to that point, like the mischievous young elf he was), and Charles Xavier had just snapped by that point. The late, lamented Ol’ Charlie X always had seemed wound a little tight.

"You look..." Kurt began now, hanging up his coat and hat. His yellow eyes flickered, though whether they happened to be studying Tony's face, or something else entirely, he truly could not have said. Kurt, at any rate, didn't finish his sentence.

"It's a Wonderful Life," Tony answered. They were, after all, deep into the holiday season. "Ah," was all Kurt said in response. Kurt probably saw everything--how Tony felt hollowed out with missing his family, how he ached for them. How could he not? Loki and the kids put the AWE in awesome. They constantly amazed him, adding so much to his joy, his imagination, his appreciation of the world around him. Still, despite all that, he'd continued to drink like it was going out of style, and he couldn’t actually lay all of that at the feet of poor lost tiny Wilhelm or even his ongoing and very real fears that he might lose his husband through his own general crapiousity.

It was something he did. It was something he _was_ doing, and blaming it on stress, difficult events, or anything else just didn’t hold water. He could have seen a doctor. He could have snuck in less junk food and more sleep. He could have joined Loki in his workouts, boosting his endorphins, Loki’s sense of companionship, and his own fitness levels all at the same time. He could have actually worked when he was in his workshop, either on his own shit or actually teaching and encouraging the kids, Jöri especially, like he’d set out to do back when everything seemed like smooth sailing.

Back when he still had his sweet Jöri and his radiant Hela.

Back before he'd let Loki get more broken than he'd ever been, even on the day he fell to earth in Central Park, or the day Tony recovered him from S.H.I.E.L.D.

Some might call it a failure of his will, the more empathetic would call it a disease, but whatever name he gave it, one fact remained: he was an goddamn addict, and he needed to stop.

He was a fucking alcoholic, just like his Old Man.

It hadn’t taken Tony a million years to see, even before the Three Strikes Ultimatum, exactly what Loki was doing, with his way-too-overcrowded schedule—he was getting ready for when the life he’d wanted here on Midgard, his life with Tony, exploded in his face.

Loki wouldn’t have missed a check-in with Director (who was actually, sneakily, and obviously, beginning to develop a liking for Mr. Mischief, Tony noticed, though he continued to play stern) or one of his community service days if he was bleeding out the eyeballs—which had actually been the case on at least one occasion (Director had brought a cool wet washcloth for over his eyes and had Loki lie down on his office sofa for the duration of their meeting, and Happy himself come to collect him, after).

He built wealth with his art, his books (even if two-thirds, voluntarily, did go to the Rebuild Manhattan Fund, and to scholarships or medical care for victims and the families of victims, just as half the profits for _Fen’s Book_ would go to Special Olympics and half into a trust for Fen himself.

His teaching and his other work helped Loki to build reputation.

As for his training… Well, Loki was going to meet it in fighting trim, and if he couldn’t achieve _Ӕsir_ levels of fitness, he was damn well going to get as close to it as he could, no allowances made for anything, certainly not for kindness toward himself, for food and adequate sleep and listening to his poor, abused body when it hurt him, no gentleness toward his own emotions, no breaks when it was all too much, except for those frightening bursts of non-tears.

Tony wondered why he hadn’t seen it, that nobody could keep up with that schedule. Nobody.

The last thing he wanted was to see his own personal handsome prince crash and burn, but it sure seemed like he was heading that way with a quickness.

Time to stage an intervention, maybe, once he’d cleaned up his own shit? Or at least a nice, long, relaxing vacation, if he could talk Director into giving Loki the time off. Something like cruising around the Greek Isles would be sweet, maybe finishing up with a week in London for Loki (and maybe the boys, too, because the kids would be safely home from Asgard, of course, all of them, no harm done), not to mention himself, to indulge in some of that excellent British tailoring.

Hela could add some amazing hats to her already-impressive collection, as Hela had decreed that, for both women and men, HATS AND GLOVES WOULD RETURN. Tony suspected it was his daughter’s first step toward World Domination. With Capital Letters.

In the evenings, during the London leg of their Dream Vacation (also with capital letters, please), Loki could squeeze in as many of his beloved Shakespeare plays as time allowed and his heart desired. Their daughter would want to go too, Tony knew that, and he might check out one or two himself, just for the pleasure of sitting in the dark between his husband and his lovely girl, holding their hands, seeing their eyes light up as they surrendered to the spell of the performance.

He was so, so goddamned lucky in his life, and he was also so, so such a piece of complete shit. He also wanted to make things better, and didn't know how to do it. Words, so far, had completely failed him. Maybe, with Loki's birthday coming up, he could fall back (with Kurt's help, yet again) on the perfect gift--one that truly expressed the depth and breadth of his love, and also served as an apology his husband wouldn't reject?

Loki had been so out of it the previous December (thanks to von Doom and their dear, dear friends at S.H.I.E.L.D.), he probably wouldn’t have noticed if Tony gave him a severed head for his birthday. Ditto for _Jul_ and Christmas, though by that time he’d at least been able to go through a version of the motions for the sake of the kids.

It took Loki until about April to realize the fountain pen he found, still boxed, among his possessions, had been his birthday present, and that he LOVED it. Had no memory whatsoever of receiving it, maybe, but loved it.

Touching The Pen, in Loki’s book, was a beheading offense. He was thinking of creating an enchantment, like Mjolnir’s, that would prevent anyone else from picking it up. The thing even had a name: _Innblástur_.

Tony humored him by remarking that he’d read you could ruin the nib if you wrote even once with another person’s fountain pen.

“Indeed!” Loki responded eagerly. “That is very true!”

Inspired, Loki had given Cap a different very nice fountain pen for his late-June birthday, with a sweet note that said, “To my Shield-Brother, Captain Rogers, on the occasion of his birthday, as a remembrance of times past, and for his many kindnesses, then and now.”

He’d teleported the gift to the breakfast bar in Avenger’s Central, where he would not usually go, and afterwards refused to acknowledge himself as the giver of the pen.

From then on, Steve started calling Loki “Dr. Stark” instead of “Mr. Laufeyson.”

For Bruce’s birthday, Loki and Hela banded together to give him two sets of Hulk-proof clothing made with Reed Richard’s unstable molecule fabric. Their colors suited both Bruce’s silvering dark hair and The Hulk’s big greenness. Hela got a nice thank you note for the gift, Loki nothing, even though the clothes were holding up great and were Loki’s idea.

Baby steps, right?

As previously observed, Tony had been screwing things up a lot with his husband lately, not just the drinking and the one-sided arguments, or even the painting but the… other thing. The not-to-be-mentioned Professor Nels Lars Nelson thing.

Hence hanging with Kurt, who despite his good guy status, and hard times shared, was so very much Loki’s friend, in a totally different way than his. Kurt was family to Tony, no doubt of that—maybe like a first cousin he was really, really close to. For Loki he was like a twin brother: comforter, confidante, soulmate, the person in all the Nine Realms who came closest to understanding what could never really be understood, because even to Tony (who liked to think he loved his husband as well as one being could love another, no matter how much he fucked up with him) Loki still sometimes presented himself as a beautiful enigma.

So, of course (given that he was an alcoholic and pretty much everyone, at this point, had noticed in a big way) Tony asked Kurt to meet him in a bar. That made sense in StarkWorld. A place obviously closely related to Bizarro World, only stranger.

Tony pretended to read the menu in order to avoid Kurt's eyes, chatting idly with his friend as Kurt settled in, asking how his Thanksgiving went (what, no impeccably cooked turkey dinner in a cabin in Connecticut with Mystique this year, Kurt?).

Kurt and Loki had a running in-joke, that Tony barged in on now and then, combining Kurt’s blue, shape-shifter bio-mom with Martha Stewart, Empress of Domesticity, the punchline of which seemed to be some variation on, “ _It’s a good thing! Stab!_ ”

Maybe it helped Kurt to process the reality of the woman who’d chucked him over a waterfall when he was less than thirty minutes old (in order to save her own hide, no less). He didn’t know quite what the deal was with Kurt’s dad, but apparently it was right up there with the late, unlamented Laufey abandoning Loki on the ice because he was small for a _Jӧtnar_ baby, or whatever the fuck his deal had been.

Contrast that with the way Loki fought for their own kids, to the point of death and beyond. His kids, except for little Fen, who were gone now, under Odin’s rule, subject to his crazy-cakes way of doing things.

Contrast, too, with the way Loki grieved when they’d lost their own baby a few months before.

Tony still dreamed of tiny Wilhelm nearly every night, saw him blow out the candles on each birthday cake, saw him letter in track one night, saw him letter in wrestling another, saw him go to prom, graduate high school, graduate college... Wilhelm always looked the same in his dreams: Loki-tall and thin, gawky, with an adorably goofy grin and his _Pabbi’s_ Brillo-pad hair, only in Tony’s own shade of brown. His eyes, like Tony’s too, were warm, brown, laughing mahogany.

When they'd still slept together, Tony would wake up in Loki’s arms after these dreams of their son to find the shoulder of Loki’s t-shirt wet beneath his cheek, kind green eyes watching his.

Now he only woke up alone, to the company of his own sogged-out pillow.

_God_ , Tony thought, _I screwed up. I screwed up so fucking bad. I meant to be there for you, babe. I really meant to._

The sight of Loki going around trying to hide looking tragic all the time while still being so sweet with everyone in his orbit was like having the arc reactor torn out of his chest, in the days that he still had the arc reactor.

He’d promised himself he never, never would screw up again. Not this time. Not after Pepper. Not with his amazing, impossible, über-loving and lovable Norse god, not after hitting Strikes One and Two so incredibly fucking quickly.

Tony’d promised himself he’d die before he hit strike three.

Kurt, eternally kind and tactful, wasn’t mentioning the previous week (or Prof. N. L. Nelson), though Tony was pretty damn sure he could see at least a little shadow of those events in the mutant’s yellow eyes.

A sudden sick ripple of shame shot through his belly, one Tony knew he’d totally earned. It still seemed like some kind of distant nightmare. He couldn’t really have let himself get impaired to the point where he’d destroyed Loki’s beautiful work, or to the point Kurt and Logan had to take charge of his remaining son.

That Pepper had to be the one to gather Loki under her wing when he was so in shock, so vulnerable and hurting. That Pepper was the one who'd held Loki’s hand, talking him down, talking him into keeping calm when he’d had the fucking Rape Kit done. Loki who was so ashamed to be seen as he was by anyone, even Hank McCoy, too traumatized to put up a glamour, or even find his words in English.

Pepper, amazing Pepper, who had taken every opportunity given to learn SpaceViking, able to claim to the campus police and the mutant doctor she'd somehow managed to pick out for him in a busy New York City E.R., to be Loki’s big sister, Hreinmeja “Pipar” Friggasdottir Potts, able to soothe him after.

At this point, Tony owed Pep pretty much anything, up to and including his immortal soul, if he had one.

So, of course, with customary asshattery, Tony started off his and Kurt’s little _München_ get-together all light and breezy, telling Kurt about a new beer they had on tap here, and when the waiter arrived Tony ordered two, barely noticing the guy—big dude, _Deutsch_ , blonder than anyone but a two-year-old ought to be--whatever, just bring us our drinks. Though not in a rude way. Rudeness never got good service.

The guy lingered, and Tony really, sincerely hoped he wasn’t going to embarrass himself by asking for an Iron Man autograph.

Eventually, Kurt said, “ _Vielen Dank_ ,” just a little more pointedly than Kurt usually said anything.

The waiter left.

“Takes all kinds,” Tony said.

Kurt shrugged slightly, spinning the adamantium ring he wore on his left thumb as he swiftly changed the subject to some work he’d been doing with Reed Richards—Tony had been involved in the initial stages and probably would be more involved in the later ones (the actual nuts-and-bolts building part) as well—on remote micro-surgery equipment and adaptive technologies that would benefit people like Kurt or Stephen Strange, whose hands didn’t quite mesh with conventional tech.

“These are very good hands for an acrobat,” Kurt said, turning his slender but powerful two-finger-and-a-thumb hands back and forth, “ _Vielleicht_ not for a surgeon.”

Kurt was badly torn still between wanting to become a pediatric surgeon, to help kids born with birth defects, and wanting to pursue psychiatry, because there was no one, literally no one, out there for people like Bruce or Loki or Thor, people who could seriously use a little help (or way more than a little, really), but whose bodies either couldn’t process psych meds normally, or couldn’t exactly spit out the words, “So when I turn into a huge, green rage monster,” or, “In Asgard, when the Father of the Gods, and his son, the god of goodness and light, abused me,” without being launched straight into the looney bin.

Tony kind of hoped Kurt took the second path. Not that he wasn’t amazing with kids, but surgeons (Stephen Strange, anyone?) did sometimes seem to be assholes, and sweet Kurt shouldn’t have to deal with that shit. Plus, there were plenty of pediatric surgeons, but only one Kurt, who with his prodigious lightness of being was a walking advertisement for things working out okay despite the odds being never in your favor.

Kurt was, of course (though he humbly would never say so), doing brilliantly in Med School— and seemed to be getting along great as Columbia’s first openly mutant candidate. And, honestly, you’d have to be a jerk of the first order not to like Kurt.

Tony wanted to ask his BFF-in-law sometimes if he could have a do-over, would Kurt take one? Having better parents, sure—he knew he and Bruce, Loki and Kurt would probably all take a second chance on that one, or even a third, since the Blues Brothers didn’t exactly win out in the foster parent sweepstakes either: crazy sorceress or monomaniacal god, you decide!

Kurt’s foster mom, Margali of the Winding Path (and how was that for a sketchy name?) had trapped the blue mutant in the lowest ring of an exacting replica of Dante’s Inferno for the crime of stopping her slimy-ass son’s killing spree in the most definitive possible way.

Odin Allfather, that truly A++ parent, had killed Loki first two sons (or, rather, changed one into a rabid wolf that tore apart his beloved twin brother in front of Loki’s face), forced Thor to catch Loki before he could escape, chained his youngest son on top of three pointy rocks with chains made from the fucking guts of his murdered baby, then sealed him in a cave for 200 years with snake-acid dripping into his eyes.

Sorry, Kurt--and even Bruce--Loki won hands-down in the contest no one wanted to win, that of Worst Childhood Ever.

For Kurt, all the bad stuff came from outside him. It was like in that goofy Christmas play, _Inspecting Carol_ , when the roast turkey accidentally slides across the stage and under the robes of the Ghost of Christmas Present: " _The white meat is Ignorance. The dark meat is Poverty_.”

Kurt had maybe had to put up with a lot of white meat in his day, but he could look at it from a distance and reject it, he didn’t have to eat any.

With Odin as his father and king, though? All-watching, All-powerful and 100% batshit crazy, his particular brand of nutso just soaked into everything and infected everyone.

Tony wondered what building a really effective Odinbuster suit would take?

But, despite his earlier thought, Tony still couldn’t imagine having been dealt the shittiest possible hand in every category possible and still come out Kurt instead of some bitter, raging, lunatic. He couldn’t have done it himself.

Loki was a horrible sleeper and sometimes, when he just couldn’t go under, Tony would wake to hear him muttering, “I do not know how to be Kurt.” Sometimes Tony was a giant chicken-man and stuck his giant chicken head under the pillows so he didn’t have to deal with that, pretending to still be sound asleep. It was the safer option: sleepless Loki was often fragile Loki and fragile Loki could turn into brittle Loki in a heartbeat.

Brittle Loki was the most dangerous Loki of all. Because of the kids, he no longer allowed himself to fly into a million pieces everywhere, but the alternative was an implosion, turning all those shards in on himself. Often that required an infusion of Kurt himself, a call to Salem Center, a grumpy grunt from Logan, and another grunt, with words this time, “Okay. He’s off.”

It wasn’t that far from Salem Center to Manhattan, but it was a lot of ‘ports at two miles a pop and Kurt would usually arrive looking windblown and shaky. He’d find Loki wherever he’d frozen— sometimes literally, in _Jӧtunn_ form and covered over in ice, sometimes only figuratively, not like Bruce holding his downward-plunging-dragon-dog or whatever the hell his latest yoga pose was, but like a small black hole at the furthest edge of the universe, the kind that won’t let light or sound or anything in or out.

Tony blinked. There was a blue blur of two-fingered hand waving in front of his eyes.

“Wherever you traveled to just then,” Kurt said, “I hope it was a pleasant holiday.”

“Not so much.” Tony pulled a face. “Too many thoughts. I must still have Latverian jet lag.”

“Ach, von Doom!” Kurt laughed. “He’s so weird!”

“Yeah, with the mask and the remote control robots and the way he has that HUGE crush on you. And the Doombots. Honestly. Doombots?”

“StarkBots?” Kurt countered with a raised brow and a frisky twitch of his tail. “Stark Tower? And he does not have a crush on me. We bonded over our shared Roma culture.”

“You so whispered sweet nothings in Roma into his metal-covered ears. Probably offered to paint his caravan.”

“ _Ach, lieber_ Tony, you are a terrible man. I could never live in a place called Doomstadt, anyway. Far too depressing.”

“We’re really finally officially changing Stark Tower to Avengers Tower by the way. All the right letters are here. Now let’s just hope the crew can spell.”

“I was amused by your daughter’s story of the giant crimson “A.” Adulteress tower indeed!” Kurt actually giggled.

“Ha ha, very funny, fuzzy. Anyway, there’s gonna be a party. You can bring Logan. He can smoke his stinky cigars in the no smoking areas and glare at people. Clint can join him.” They’d gone on to laugh over a truly heinous prank played back in the day by Loki on the somber and semi-asshatish Dr. Stephen Strange, when the waiter returned with their beers and a basket of the bar’s ridiculously delicious homemade pretzels.

Between giggles, Tony took an enthusiastic quaff of his beer and snagged a pretzel.

Kurt took the pretzel from his fingers and returned it to the basket. He dusted his own fingers fastidiously.

“Tony, would you get us a fresh basket from _mein Freund_ Helmut at the bar, and a sealed bottle of Winzeldorf Braun, _bitte_? Winzeldorf is my home town, more or less,” he said, with his usual calm, cheerful smile. “It’s a treat, that they have it here. A taste of Bavaria, _ja?_ ”

Tony left on his errand, wondering if the usually easy-going Kurt had caught a case of persnickety from His Royal Highness.

Allergies aside, Loki really did like and dislike the weirdest damn things. Caviar was a given, of course, and really any kind of seafood, tentacles and weird bits not an obstacle. He would consent to eat pizza, if denied any other food source, but always wanted anchovies and fresh mozzarella, only made with goats’ or sheep’s milk . He adored sushi of all sorts now and probably would have eaten it three times a day if allowed. His favorite dessert was a rice pudding with lingonberry sauce, which Thor would make for him sometimes, but most of the time he ate like a wrestler trying to make his weight class, or a movie actor starving down for a part.

The foods he liked, he really liked, all others, even those he could tolerate, he rejected utterly. He would not, under any circumstances, touch anything involving mushrooms, honey, or any berries but the lingonberries, and those he only liked on his pudding.

Equally weirdly, he loved Logan’s cooking and would enthusiastically eat anything he made, provided it didn’t contain a substance he wasn’t able to manage—he said Logan was the only one who tasted and smelled things the way he did.

By the time Tony got back to their table, Logan was there, as if he’d summoned him by thinking.

“Stark,” the burly mutant said, by way of greeting.

“Logan,” Tony replied.

Truth be told, though he was plenty used to being terrified, that feeling usually didn’t extend all that much to other people. Despite seeing the man no less than once a week, often scarfing Thor’s waffles at his own breakfast table, and Logan having served as Tony's Best Man, the guy still scared the piss out of him--more so since the Professor Nels Lars Nelson incident. His muscles not only had muscles of their own, those muscles had brought large immigrant families of muscles from other muscle countries and settled in for the long haul. He was so monumentally hairy that the kids sometimes referred to him as Uncle Bear, and he had cold, killer’s eyes—up until he looked at Kurt, then he just looked kind of goofy and besotted.

Ah, love…

Logan was also inexpressibly tender with Loki, in his gruff silent way, often calling him “son,” which Loki drank up like a plant needing rain.

Right now, though, he just looked pissed.

“No, let it go,” Kurt said. “It’s not being weak, James, it’s being adult. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t.”

Kurt only called his fiancé by his real name instead of Logan when he was the deadliest of dead serious—and despite his fuzzy friend’s cheerful voice, this appeared to be one of those times.

_Tell yourself that a few more times, Kurt,_ Tony thought, then felt bad because Kurt really was everything good and decent humanity had to offer and he really did love the blue fuzzball a lot.

When Kurt slid out to use the men’s room, Logan stood up too. He picked up Tony’s glass, sniffed it, set it down, then picked up Kurt’s rejected glass and sniffed that too.

He stood for a moment in deep contemplation before ambling off, untouched glass in hand. A few minutes later he sauntered back, rumbling a chuckle like distant thunder.

Kurt slid back in beside him. He looked tense.

“Man wanted a drink,” Logan growled. “Rolf Something. You were kind enough to provide him with one. Seemed fair. Here’s to Rolf.” He tipped up the rest of the Braun, more than half the bottle—it slid down his throat in one swallow. “Winzeldorf. Huh. Rat bastards.”

“Logan, it’s over with. It was a beginning.”

“They chased my Kurt in Winzeldorf, Stark. With torches. And pitchforks. My Kurt. Like fucking Frankenstein.”

Loki’s number one persnickety voice popped into Tony’s head: "Frankenstein was the doctor, not the monster. By the Nine, if you mean the monster say Frankenstein’s monster. It’s not that _fjandinn_ hard!"

Kurt ran a shaky hand through his curly hair. Logan laid his head on Kurt’s shoulder, his massive arms around Kurt’s slim waist.

“Winzeldorf. Our how-we-met story,” Kurt said, a trifle drily. He added something to Logan in German, in a light, laughing voice.

“Yes, actually,” Logan answered, “Yes, I can. I can demolish anyone who hurts you. I don’t turn cheeks. I don’t do it. You know I don’t, elf. That fucking waiter should be glad he’s not wearing his dick as a necktie.”

_Christ_ , Tony thought, _I’ve fallen into the middle of a couple’s argument_. He didn’t like his own couple’s arguments, especially now, when the bitterness between him and Loki showed no signs of stopping.

“It was only pee in the beer, not acid.” Kurt gestured, brushing the subject away.

“It was everything, Kurt,” Logan growled. His huge blunt-fingered hand rubbed Kurt’s much smaller one. “Every shitty thing done to you. All those years.”

“I don’t need vengeance for everything,” Kurt said. “I don’t need it for anything, actually. I’m not in the vengeance business.”

“Maybe I need it, then,” Logan answered. “What I don’t need is assholes shitting on the little bit of good there is in the world. Meaning you, my lover.”

Kurt smacked him, lightly, on the back of the head with his tail.


	11. Fate, Regret, and a Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki receives a birthday gift. Tony comes up with a plan to improve their life together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bösendorfer Company of Vienna, Austria is considered by many to be the world's finest maker of pianos. The company is also one of the oldest, having been founded in 1828.
> 
> "Behold, thou art fair..." is from the _Song of Solomon_ , Chapter 4 KJV

* * *

When Tony finally got around to asking, Kurt had come up with the suggestion that he might want to buy music-obsessed Loki a piano for his birthday present. The Bösendorfer baby grand he'd chosen and had shipped from Vienna to New York via super-expedited express now sat in an alcove newly partitioned off from the family room. It glowed with a rich, mellow darkness so deep you couldn’t just see your face, you could probably see all Nine Realms reflected in that glossy black lacquer.

“Oh,” Loki breathed, stalking around its shape like a hunter entranced by a rare, beautiful, and deadly animal. “Oh!”

He touched a single note in the upper register. The tone hung in the air clear, round, and perfect, sounding uncannily like their daughter's crystalline soprano.

A look of anguish and longing passed over his husband’s face. Hela should have been there. She should have been there, and Jöri too, to play and sing with their _Pabbi_ , and maybe help heal his painfully injured heart a little.

Tony loathed the Allfather so much in that moment that the extremity of his hatred nearly blinded him, and made it all but impossible to breathe--only he couldn't lose it now, not in this time or place. Not standing here with their remaining son, Loki's brother, all their friends and the lovely new piano. Not on Loki’s Name-Day.

After a long moment spent just staring at his gift, Loki folded himself onto the bench and set his hands on the keys, studying his own long fingers, his impeccably groomed nails. After the dramatic pause, Tony expected a barrage of equally dramatic music, something Lokiesque and complicated to showcase his husband’s considerable talents.

Even on the electronic keyboard he’d been using up until now, Loki had struck him as pretty damn amazing. On this handmade, constructed-in-Austria (piano capital of the world) instrument, Tony expected something mind-blowing.

Instead, Loki chose a familiar tune, simple, sweet, a little sad.

Tony knew the words. He'd bet good money everyone in the western world over the age of forty knew the words:

 _Blackbird singing in the dead of night_  
_Take these broken wings and learn to fly_  
_All your life_  
_You were only waiting for this moment to arise..._

The poignancy of that song, in that moment, made Tony want to weep. He struggled to swallow the giant lump in his throat.

“This,” Loki said, gently running his fingertips along the keys, “Is the most perfect gift I have ever been given.”

His fingertips ghosted from octave to octave. “With my whole heart I thank you, best-beloveds.”

 _What’s her name?_ Fenrir sent, climbing up on the bench beside Loki. _What’s her name,_ _Pabbi?_

“Her name is Sigyn,” Loki answered, “Because she brings me comfort when I am in need.”

 

That night, the two of them finally together again in the stillness of their bedroom, their bitter quarrel suspended, if not forgotten, Loki told Tony the sweeter part of the story of Sigyn, the little cavern in the forest, and Narfi and Vali, his beautiful boys.

Tony knew the terrible rest of that particular tale, both from what Loki said aloud and from a thousand unintended sendings, a thousand unmeant cries of desperate loss. He'd even encountered his husband's beloved boys, grown now and living a semi-life far away on Avalon, a place their _Pabbi_ referred to as the Island of the Ever-Young. Tony couldn't help but wonder how many centuries (or however time happened to be counted in that strange and magical place) Narfi and Vali had existed there, two handsome young men who would never age, but would always be just as they were the night he'd met them.

That aside, it felt good to hear Loki talk of better days, however removed from their own time together, and even better to lie in their own big bed, with Loki by his side.

“So,” Tony said, to cheer his birthday boy a little when Loki eventually fell silent, “What does goat-charming involve, exactly?”

Loki laughed suddenly, making an undignified snorting noise, totally uncharacteristic of his usual elegant ways.

No more snorting followed, only an obscene amount of giggling, a discrete amount of tickling, and then Loki kissing him, deeply and soulfully, cupping Tony’s face between his hands in a surge of perfect white light, and a tingling shiver that seemed half frost and half lightning.

Tony found himself wound up in the indescribable glowing green that could only be what Loki called his _seiðr_ , soothed and aroused all in one moment, inextricably bound to his husband. In that brightness, he gazed down into Loki’s face, his true face, which Tony had only glimpsed before, now and then, in moments of undiluted joy.

Loki gazed up at Tony in return, only trust in the endless depths of his remarkable green eyes.

“’Behold, thou art fair, my love;’” Loki murmured in his ear. Lately he'd started to go in for Midgardian poetry in a big way.

“’Behold, thou art fair.’” He started giggling again, even harder than before. “’Thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks, thy hair is as a flock of goats....’”

His laughter grew deeper and fuller, Tony laughing with him now, both at the flock-of-goat hair, and the _seiðr_ that rushed sparkling and effervescent over his skin, like nothing he’d ever felt, as if he had, in that very moment, been granted full access not only to every one of his own nerve endings, but to every sensation of Loki’s as well, until everything went perfect and liquid and silken, with not the least necessity to play “Lube, lube, where’s the lube?” as they dug in passionate desperation through their bedside table drawers.

Tony had gone wonderfully hard, as hard as he could ever remember being, and yet he slipped inside his husband so easily, moved so easily in the hot, wet, tightness of Loki’s body, the currents of their dual arousal rushing over him in a wave of almost unbearable pleasure. Predictably, he didn’t last long. His brain and body went up in fireworks and he might actually have blacked out for a moment or two.

He woke up in Loki’s arms, Loki’s fingertips stroking his beard as he'd always liked to do, for reasons Tony didn't fully comprehend. He bent to press a soft and loving kiss to Tony's lips.

“Have no fear, prince of my heart," he said, "You will soon learn to feel as I feel, to become part of me in this way."

"You're already part of me, babe. For always.”

Only the next morning, getting ready to start his day, and with Loki still asleep in their bed, his face for once entirely peaceful, did Tony notice the small cellophane-wrapped packet sitting right there beside Loki’s reading glasses on the nightstand, as thoroughly forgotten as (he devoutly hoped) certain recent events.

During the passion and tenderness of the night before, neither one of them had bothered to think, though they were usually always so careful, especially after Wilhelm.

The _Nornir_ , however, spun their threads (possibly snickering slightly as their spindles whirled).

And things happened.

* * *

Tony never got around to discussing The Other Thing with Kurt, the night the mutant-hating waiter pissed in Kurt’s beer (though Kurt’s ideas about the piano turned out to be spectacularly appropriate—Loki really had glowed with joy, at least temporarily, and Loki glowing never failed to strike Tony as the most beautiful damn thing in the history of ever).

Tony never did bring it up, not with Kurt or with anyone else, barring a select few. In the end, to do so felt too weird.

Mainly, Tony suspected, that omission followed mostly because Kurt didn’t get mad at people (except possibly blue mutants named Mystique), but also due to the fact that somewhere, deep down, maybe, in his huge, kind, loving, forgiving, endlessly-polite heart, he continued to be seriously pissed at Tony, to the point that he’d probably rip Tony’s shriveled, whiskey-sodden heart out of his chest with his substantial, razor-sharp fangs if Tony took one more wrong step with his fragile and hurting husband.

If Pepper had also possessed razor-sharp fangs, she most likely would have been next on line to do the same. Over the years, Tony had managed to disappoint his old friend a truly epic number of times, in an unbelievably wide variety of ways, but he was pretty sure this was, for Pepper, one of the worst, that she could stand him hurting her personally far better than she could stand him hurting other people, and from the first she’d been oddly, fiercely protective of Loki.

Still, even with that in mind, he did discuss the The Other Thing with Pep, because she was not only awfully good with logistics, she somehow managed to be even better at handling Tony’s public persona.

He also talked The Other Thing over with Cap, to his utter humiliation, because, face it, he would almost certainly have to be excused from Avengers duties for the foreseeable future.

He discussed his plan (far more comfortably) with Bruce as well, both in the context of his ScienceBro serving as his kinda-sorta doctor and as someone who could be counted on to know somebody who knew somebody, preferably in foreign parts.

In this case, the foreign part they settled on turned out to be New Zealand, where nobody would be impressed in the least with the fact that he was Tony-fuckin’-Stark.

Last of all, he told Thor, something he found more difficult than bringing up The Other Thing with Pepper, Steve and Bruce combined, because the thought of informing the god of thunder about what happened on The Day Loki Went Missing (and after) could easily end up with Tony being Mjolnirated for being the World’s Most Insensitive Husband to the god’s beloved baby brother.

Trying to explain anything to Point Break through the filter of Thor’s cultural obtuseness made any explanation a daunting task, much less such a personal and reflecting-horribly-on-him something.

As it was, Thor (though with sad eyes and and an expression of distress about ten times more profound than any Tony would have guessed his Nordically godly face capable of making) nodded sagely.

“You have tasted overmuch of the mead and must now take the Husband’s Pledge, that you not be cast from your Meadhall and into the cold of the snow, unable to gift or to show hospitality, friendless and reviled amongst all.”

Thor next gave him a sweet smile. “You show wisdom, husband-of-my-brother, friend Anthony, in pursuing this course, for our Loki did in no way provoke Professor Nels Lars Nelson, this I truly do believe, and his heart is nigh to broken by the words you spoke unto him.”

 _Shit,_ Tony thought, _Loki ratted me out to Thor_.

Well, of course he had, Thor was his brother, and Loki loved and needed him.

“Will you explain this for me to your bro, then? Make him understand I’m definitely not deserting him, but that I'm going away--only for a short time, mind you--to save us? Because I don’t ever want to hurt him again, the way I hurt him the other night. I'd literally rather die, Thor."

”There is misfortune in the timing,” Thor said, "As surely you must realize?"

“I’m just afraid I might say… do… be… something worse if I waited,” Tony confessed.

Though Tony didn’t add anything to his previous explanation, Thor gave him an entirely different look—somber, knowing, not the least little bit like the sunny-and-a-bit-dim expression Tony might have expected from his brother-in-law--that told him Thor not only had thought about, but feared exactly the same thing.


	12. Strike Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Tony leaves New York to get help with his drinking problem, his Strike Three leaves Loki feeling as if he's going down for the third time, with no one left that he can turn to for comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki seems to suffer from a slight confusion about Bruce Springsteen, aka "The Boss." The lyrics he quotes are from the song " _Atlantic City_ ," which appears on Springsteen's album _Nebraska_ (1982).
> 
> Kurt, son of the demon King Azazel of the Neyaphem, travels through their dimension when he teleports. Since meeting Kurt, Loki has now and then been using the dimension in the same way, as a quick 'n' dirty shortcut to wherever he wants to go. Kurt has warned him repeatedly about the dangers of doing so.
> 
> Today's Shakespeare: the "As flies to wanton boys..." quote is from _King Lear_ (Act 4, scene 1); "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow..." is from _Macbeth_ (Act 5, scene 5).
> 
>  _mein Kopf_ =my head
> 
> The movie Loki refers to, which includes both the Childlike Empress and the scene in which the hero Atreyu's horse drowns in the Swamp of Despair, is _The Neverending Story_. No matter how many times I see the movie (and at one time it was one of my daughter's favorites, which meant we watched it over and over again), that scene makes me cry. Every. Single. Frickin'. Time. Apparently my brain resets between viewings to make me think that somehow, _this time_ the horse will actually make it to safety, and then....

* * *

“C'mon, babe,” Tony continued, as the towncar sped on toward JFK International Airport and that which Tony complained of as his "impending bazillion-hour flight" to the country of New Zealand.  Loki no longer had it in him to decide whether Tony meant this merely as humour, or as a not-entirely-voiced criticism, as if he had either required his husband to travel such a distance, or personally placed the island nation within the far-off waters where it lay.

In this way, they had balanced upon the knife-edge of quarreling through the whole day of Tony's departure, a state that tore at Loki's heart and dampened his courage. He had long realized that Tony blamed him for his overindulgence in drink, and that sometimes, in truth, Loki _did_ feel responsible--not, he suspected, out of any true fault of his own, but because his husband wished him to feel guilty.

“Jesus, don’t take it _that_ way, Lok,” Tony said, placing all blame squarely upon Loki's shoulders.

 _No, not **said**_ , Loki amended. His husband _wheedled_. He _whined_. He sought to manipulate, to make Loki see himself, ever, as the one who'd done wrong, and Tony as entirely innocent. Chances were, the next words to leave his mouth would be either "Can't you take a joke, Loki?" or "Christ, why do you always have to be so fucking _sensitive_?"

Loki despised the dishonesty of this dance of words, perhaps even more than how unlike this hagridden and drunken Tony had become to the great-hearted and courageous man he had married. He could clearly distinguish the shape of a large flask through the fabric of Tony’s well-cut suit, and hear the gurgle of amber poison within it.

A ball of fire burned in the pit of Loki's stomach. _Am I a thing of faint regard_ , he wondered, _That he should speak to me in this way, with so little consideration?_

Gods, but he felt weary.

“How am I meant to take it?” Loki replied. “You disparage my 'flamboyance,' belittle my 'Asgardian fashion sense.' You claim I demean you by both my appearance and my presence--yet am I not as I always was, the same husband, the same being you once proclaimed to the heavens you adored? If I shame you so, why do you wish me to travel with you, even so far as to the airport?"

He regarded Tony with narrowed eyes, appearing, had he but known it, remarkably sinister.

“Ah, yes. You feared I would 'make a scene,' should we speak in another venue.”

“Don’t put on the world domination voice, Lok.”

"We have nothing more to speak of, Anthony." Sadness welled in him, and Loki turned his face toward the towncar's window, presently dark and streaked with rain. His own features, looking back at him, appeared only ordinary and dreary.  He glimpsed nothing uncommon in them at all, nothing untoward, nothing detestable, only the face of a youngish man who looked downtrodden and not precisely well.

Only his long hair set him apart from the usual, that same hair Tony had claimed, many, many times, to love, running his fingers through its silken strands, burying his face in its darkness.

 _Ah, but that was then,_ Loki thought. _That was then._ What was it the Boss of New Jersey sang?

_Everything dies, baby, that's a fact  
But maybe everything that dies some day comes back._

He no longer bore any belief in "maybes," and for something once dead to return to life could only be a counterfeit, as when he had pretended to die before Captain Rogers on the bank of that German river, or before Thor in Svartalfheimr--mere tricks and illusions both. Dead things did not resurrect, but only decayed further, and for Tony to behave as he now chose to, their love must indeed have died, and he, in his deluded foolishness, his desire for something never meant to be his, had failed to notice.

Unthinking, blinded in that moment by grief, Loki reached out for his children, forgetting that Hela and Jӧri could not be touched, that he had failed them, just as he failed Sleipnir and Narfi and Vali, that only a vast, humming, crackling darkness lay between Asgard and Midgard, a different darkness between Midgard and Avalon, each dividing them absolutely, each one as impenetrable as the other.

Loki's heart, by this time, felt broken beyond breaking, and yet it never ceased to pain him.

Oh, his lost children! By what idiot impulse had Loki allowed Nels Lars Nelson, his never-friend, to detain him upon that day of all days? He should have been present, there to fight Heimdall with every ounce of ferocity and skill he yet possessed, even unto to death if need be, before he allowed his sweetlings to be spirited away from him. He had vowed never again to bow to Odin's commands, Odin’s threats, yet had allowed a mere mortal man to trick and detain him.

Loki had wanted so badly to do as Kurt advised with this new life he had been granted: to turn his back upon old traditions, forsake old ways, to walk away from all that had been, to build new dreams and grow his heart into strength again with a family he could count on to be true, and honest, and his own.

How could accomplish these things, however, when the Great Bully of Asgard could at any moment reach down from on high, destroying half of what Loki had built for himself, stealing for his own all the rest?How could he accomplish these things when he himself was... as he was?

“’As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods,’” Loki murmured to his dark reflection, “’They kill us for their sport.’”

The thought of all Asgard mocking, sneering at, disparaging his marvelous children outraged him. That they would be forced to suffer in that place, as he had...

“Beg pardon?” Tony's face rose behind his in the glass, staring at Loki as if he had grown a second head, displeasure clear in its features.

Clearly, it had not been Loki's turn to speak, even though he had not addressed his husband directly. Proof again that Tony, whom he loved best in all the Realms, felt no differently about him than the rest.

“It was just, you know, Lok, that whole thing with Kurt last week in the Munchkin Bar. And also your… uh… situation… It made me think.”

“My situation,” Loki repeated.

His clothing caught and rubbed against the still-raw scars on his belly. Down between his legs, the bruises had somewhat faded, the torn skin knit up a little, the worst of the damage hidden, folded up inside him. The double rings of fine bone, though, that had once framed his secret place... those had splintered into needles, a fact Loki could not, out of shame, bring himself to explain to Hank McCoy. They wove their way now through his inner flesh, flaming, stabbing, aching--sometimes so terribly he wanted curl up in his bed and weep.

Yet that physical pain existed quite apart from the pain of his misery, the pain of missing his sweet ones, and the deep, dull never-ending suffering that came from living in a place in which hatred pressed down upon him through every separate moment of every day.

All this he had so far concealed from Tony, because Tony, however briefly, had again wanted and desired him, because Tony, if only for that moment, now past, had been _his_ Tony, not the Ghost's, and found him comely.

That moment had ended. No one--least of all Tony--found him comely now, and likely never would again.

Ah, gods, but he was weary.

“I just thought, you know, that maybe that it would be better to fly low a little, not draw attention, especially while I’m gone,” Tony continued. “You know, move under the radar. I mean, the tower…”

“Is a place of business. Of course. I understand.”

“You’re mad.”

“I shall endeavor," Loki answered, dead-voiced, "To locate for you, during your absence, a statistically normal Midgardian female to replace me as your spouse. Would you also replace our 'weird kids' with two-point-five statistically normal Midgardian younglings and perhaps find a place in the penthouse for a _fjandinn_ golden retriever?"

“You’re really mad.” Tony’s face shifted behind his in the glass. “Correction. You’re really, really mad. You know what would be great? If we could sometime--just once, even, your royal highness--have a discussion without you taking offense.”

"I am not royal, not a prince," Loki breathed, that breath clouding white all across the glass. He did not trust himself to answer further, though his mind screamed, _Strike Three! Strike Three_! so loudly he could not think, only react. He flung himself into the dimension of the Neyaphem and out again, letting that terrible place lead him to the safe and comforting place where Kurt was.

* * *

Loki found his friend lying face down in bed. Kurt appeared sweaty and miserable, and smelled, also, vaguely unpleasant, which was not at all his usual smell.

“You shouldn’t get close,” Kurt croaked, “I have the flu. It's not exactly pleasant, Lo.”

“I have an Asgardian constitution and would most likely be immune.”

It was an old, and somewhat bitter, jest between them, one to which Kurt, despite his malaise, gave the expected answer, “Tell that to all the Midgardian childhood diseases you’ve been running through the past year." Kurt, however, with some effort, rolled over after speaking the words. " _Ach,_ Loki, _mein lieber Freund..._ ”

Kurt's voice, always beloved, held such inexpressible tenderness Loki wanted to weep.

Tony’s touch tugged at his mind, but Loki, in a moment, ripped away the sending ability (that which he, in his freakishness, had once gifted to his husband). After a moment, his StarkPhone rang, jingling out the annoying electronic notes of that idiotic tune “ _Iron Man_.”

Loki dropped it onto the bedside table, where it burst into flames.

“You’re in a temper,” Kurt commented, a bit woozily, Loki thought.

They were in the cabin, Loki noticed, the one that lay just beyond the village with the name he could never remember, far north of New York City and Salem Center both. He liked this cabin, where he had visited Logan and Kurt on several occasions, for its walls had been build up of heavy logs, stripped of bark but otherwise unchanged. They reminded him of the meadhalls of the Northmen, in the old days when his eyes had been newly healed, and Thor took him wandering under the Lights, in an attempt to bring some healing to his heart as well.

“I am sorry to find you ill,” Loki told Kurt.

He freshened the bedclothes with a gesture, then sat cross-legged beside his friend, pressing his palm to the hot, spongy fur between Kurt’s shoulder blades. The heat cooled and Kurt drifted into a healing sleep, not at all the same action as healing him outright, which Loki was absolutely forbidden to do.

He centered his mind and sent it further north, into the great forests where his remaining son roamed with Logan, brushing Fenrir’s excited child-thoughts, then feeling the amused rumble of Logan himself, as he acknowledged Loki's presence.

After a short while, and with great reluctance, he left them.

Kurt slept on. Loki tidied the kitchen and the rest of the cabin, put laundry in the washer, even made Kurt his favorite honey-lemon tea, though the sweet, sticky smell of the honey nauseated Loki to the point that he had to stand for a moment over the kitchen sink and retch.

The ridiculousness of his situation struck him: born to rule, washing Logan’s boxers. He still missed Tony fiercely and wanted to ring him, to tell him anything that might somehow make them one again: that the fault was all his, the mistakes all his, that he’d misunderstood, that his fury was misplaced, everything a mere product of pain and recent loss and lack of sleep.

 _There is no Strike Three_ , he tried to tell himself. _There will never be a Strike Three. My patience exists without limit. I can always forgive._

Except when Tony had begun to speak to him, Loki read the emotion behind the words, the genuine concern for appearances, the undeniable shame. He wanted to blame the Ghost and its machinations for the bitterness between them, but tired as he was now, his mind played tricks and, at times, fell into confusion, just as it had when he dwelt with S.H.I.E.L.D.

He felt bogged down, also, like that sad horse in the film where Tony discovered Hela’s pet name. Childlike Empress, he called her. Such an apt name for his brilliant sweetling.

The swamp called Despair dragged at his flesh. With Kurt ill, he had no one exhort him to its safer shores--and even with pleas and exhortations, the horse had not made its way.

It had been the saddest thing Loki had ever seen in the many, many films he’d perused. The children had wept at the time, but within moments found their joy again, whilst Loki had sat silent and heartsick, beyond recovering.

How could such a scene be set within a film for children? Loki had wondered, except that, as came to him after, such entertainments meant for children often contained great truths, for their hearts were yet honest and a greater part of those truths could yet reach them.

 _Do my own books contain this secret language of honesty?_ Loki often asked himself. Did younglings read them, and after hear their secret selves whisper, _Yes, yes, it is even so. We knew it always, only our waking hearts forgot the truth._

"Nothing makes sense to me, Kurt," Loki murmured, glad that his dear friend slept, and would not hear his despair. He knew not how he had lived through the past lonely, terrible weeks. He knew less how he should exist through another, and another…

 _To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,_  
_Creeps in this petty pace from day to day_  
_To the last syllable of recorded time,_  
_And all our yesterdays have lighted fools_  
_The way to dusty death…_

Loki muttered, eyes dry yet fiercely stinging, to the cabin's already-clean kitchen worktop he had scrubbed again so diligently with sponge and cleanser, the words in his mouth feeling both inarguably true and overly dramatic, too grand for the grey pallor of his present mood.

 _Tony is ashamed of me_ , whispered his own secret self. _The heart of my heart is ashamed of me. So soon, I’ve become to him an embarrassing liability. I fill him with disgust. I fill him with anger. He will never trust me, as I trusted him. As I trusted him once..._

He dripped tears into Kurt’s tea, and had to start again with a fresh cup.

Loki found a pair of scissors in Kurt’s desk drawer and took them to the bathroom, spreading a towel over the vanity to catch the snippings, cutting and cutting at the black locks until his hair was uniformly short, like the haircuts he’d seen on powerful men at the university, or in Tony’s boardroom, though not so short as that day when S.H.I.E.L.D. had shorn him to the scalp to mark him as their thrall.

As he remained their thrall, though he might appear to own his freedom.

Only the barest hint of the foolish curl remained. His eyes, reflected in the looking-glass, informed him that this was indeed hair fit only for a thrall, but that was not the case on Midgard.

Everything here turned backward, or on its head: thralls were kings, and princes became thralls.

Loki sank down on the edge of the tub, near to laughing (in a bitter and heart-sick way) at himself, at his own foolishness. Loki No Man’s Son, of no country or heritage or realm. Thrall of Starkson. Thrall of his S.H.I.E.L.D. masters. Thrall of the British Minister. Thrall, too, of Thanos, he supposed, though he still awaited the time that fate caught up with him.

"Freedom is an illusion"--were those not his words to the Midgardians?

Loki found his hands covering his mouth, a familiar gesture and one that never meant anything to his benefit. He had Googled “Rock of Ages” and he understood. The meaning was not at all the same as when Tony (long since in the past now) said, “You rock, Loki!” Rather it meant he had marked himself, yet again, as an object of ridicule, of frivolity. That his own Tony held him in no greater regard than Fandral or Sif or Volstagg held him. That Tony, once his own, now his own no longer, held him only in contempt.

Loki burned the hair with a gesture, leaving nothing of himself for an enemy to conjure on.

The smell of burnt hair made him retch again, more powerfully this time, sour water flooding his throat that he spat into the basin. He cupped water in his hand to rinse his mouth, but did not dare to swallow.

“Why do I smell burned hair?” Kurt rasped from the bedroom.

Loki gestured, killing the odor as well as the burning. Still the reek lingered in his nose. His stomach turned over in earnest and he flung himself to his knees by the toilet, the turning occurring again and again, so that he spat mouthfuls of bile into the basin.

“Loki?” Kurt called hoarsely.

“A moment. Only a moment.” In a little he was able to rise and rinse his mouth yet again. He did not wish to regard his own face in the glass, any more than he wished to spin the whirling notions within his head into something that approached coherent thought.

Loki pressed his spread hand into the scarred and still-sore hollow of his belly, discovering there the source of much of his anxiety.  It would be too soon, would it not? Still far too early to tell anything, far too early to feel so much as the whisper of a child, much less to know if one kindled within him.

If there was a child... oh, gods, let it be Tony's and not the child of his defiler? If one so often defiled as he could yet again be called defiled... .

Loki devoutly wished that he could fling himself backwards in time, returning to that half-remembered moment when sweet Hela appeared to him in his cell at S.H.I.E.L.D. To best-loved Hela approaching with hands ungloved, as a golden door grew out of the featureless grey wall.

To the moment Hela asked him to follow...

“I would go now,” Loki murmured. “Oh, dearest, I would go. I would go.”

Yet no Hela came to lead him, and perhaps never would.

The door opened behind him, Kurt framed in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. “Would you like to bring your despair out from my room of requirement?” The tip of his tail stroked down Loki’s arm.

“No,” Loki choked out. “No.”

“Come out anyway.” Kurt disappeared.

After a moment Loki followed. Kurt had seated himself, cross-legged, on one side of the bed.

“Would you like more tea?” Loki asked him.

“ _Ja, bitte_.” Many could not read Kurt's eyes, but Loki could, easily. The kindness there tore his heart open yet again.

Loki made another cup of the honey-lemon tea, and toast with apricot jam, Kurt’s favorite, cutting each slice into four precise triangles. He set plate and cup on a tray, carrying them back to his friend. He set the tray on the unoccupied side of the bed, retreating once more to the doorway.

Kurt’s yellow eyes, dull with illness, followed him.

“Grief and anger do not a good haircut make.” Kurt took up the teacup, blowing across the steaming surface. “And I have warned you about using that dimension. It is not a safe place for you, _mein Freund_.”

“It was time for a change,” Loki answered. “I would not be Rock of Ages. I would not bring Tony shame. An amendment was necessary.”

“I’d buy that, Lo,” Kurt answered, in his gentle way, “If you weren’t oozing sadness out of every pore.”

Loki found the next bit the hardest, because from nearly the moment they had met, his need for Kurt had been a palpable thing. Kurt served as rudder to his often-unsteady ship, and supplied the solutions to so many of his greatest needs.

“Tony… He does not understand your wisdom, and therefore I know the fault must fall on me. I have not meant my behavior to be importunate.”

Kurt set his cup carefully on the tray, then moved the tray to the nightstand, nudging aside the burnt phone. “Im…”

“Troublesome.”

Kurt sighed, then coughed a bit. When he could, he said, “I do actually know what importunate means, Loki.”

“I was not certain, as English is not your original language. It would be understandable if gaps existed in your vocabulary.”

Kurt put a hand over his eyes. Loki felt the powerful desire to go to him and hold him, resting his cheek against Kurt’s soft (now dry) fur, letting himself go blue and a measure of his _Jӧtnar_ coolness wash over his friend. He knew that would be soothing, just now, to Kurt’s fevered skin.

As Kurt would be soothing to him.

Loki found it easier to speak without Kurt looking at him. “You have been so kind to me, Kurt. You have healed me, truly, in a great number of ways, but I have learned…” Loki could hear his voice trembling, and hated himself bitterly for the weakness. “Tony says that such healing is not your job, that Midgard has professional healers whom one pays in coin of the realm to repair such hurts, and that is what is appropriate. My behavior has not been appropriate for an American male, and as such has aroused comment and ridicule. He mentioned, also, that he does not cuddle, to use his term, with either Bruce or Rhodey.”

“ _Ach du Lieber_.” For a moment both Kurt’s hands covered his eyes, then he flopped back in bed. “Now, Tony? Now, when _mein Kopf_ is exploding?”

“I fear you must be more ill than I’d originally thought, Kurt.”

“Figuratively, Lo. Not literally.”

“You are aware that Tony is not present to hear you?”

“That,” Kurt answered, “Is most likely a good thing. Let me think.” But instead he dropped deeply into sleep—quite without meaning to do so, Loki suspected.

He knelt by the bed, laying his hand over Kurt’s where it rested on the coverlet. He knew he wasn’t meant to perform healing, but he needed to engage in some act of kindness for the friend he loved so well, as a form of farewell, however small.

He bled mightily, but did not care in the least.


	13. Help Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The discovery of a secret ally inside the tower gives Loki new courage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _úlfur_ =wolf (Icelandic)
> 
> side-hustle=an additional job taken on to supplement one's main source of income
> 
>  _La mer, trois esquisses symphoniques pour orchestre_ (aka _The sea, three symphonic sketches for orchestra_ ), but usually referred to simply as _La Mer_ was composed by Claude Debussy between 1903 and 1905.
> 
> 'oops-a-daisy' (or one of its many variations) is a phrase commonly spoken to small children when they fall down and are helped up again. It first appears in print as "Upsa daesy!" in _The Dialect of Leeds and its Neighbourhood_ by Clough Robinson (1862).
> 
> Benedick and Beatrice are the verbally sparring lovers from Shakespeare's _Much Ado About Nothing._
> 
> "a little birdie told me"=we both know the real source of what I'm repeating, but neither of us intend to say it up front. Variations appear in a number of sources, such as _Ecclesiastes_ 10:20 ("a bird in the sky may carry your words, and a bird on the wing may report what you say") or John Heywood's 1562 _Proverbs_ ("I hear by one bird that in mine ear was late chanting"), but the modern version appears to have shown up in the early 20th century.
> 
>  _ciao bella_ =goodbye (or hello), beautiful (Italian)

* * *

When Kurt had been healed, and slept soundly within the four walls of his cabin, Loki slipped into the quiet clearing outside its door, where tall trees rose all around him and a light fall of snow tingled against his bare skin, laying feathery edgings also along the eaves and windowsills.The air smelled of evergreen needles and electricity, and its cold freshness in his lungs imparted to Loki a much-needed quickening of new energy

Somewhere out in the darkness Fen and Logan slept in a moss-lined cave within a small rise of the land, peaceful as bears in hibernation, his son's unconscious thoughts filled with the sort of dreams he dreamt inside this second life, symphonies of scent and sound and motion quite unlike anything that might occupy the everyday mind of a small Midgardian boy.

Just now, Loki thought, it was better that it should be so, that Fen should glory in his wildness, in his powerful _úlfur_ body, that he should run in joy instead of grieving for his lost brother and sister.

Logan, never truly unaware of the waking world, sent a brief sense of questioning, a _What?_ unvoiced.

 _Nothing_ , Loki responded, _Kurt is well. I've only just left him_.

He felt the older man's satisfaction with this answer and shut his mind to further inquiries.

The peace of this place, the clearing, the snug cabin and, most of all, the presence of his dear friend, might at some other time have carried the power to heal him, but they did not do so now. Loki instead tore open a doorway to the Neyaphem dimension and blasted through like fire, flinging himself down onto the penthouse terrace. Absent from the peacefulness of the cabin he felt sick with self-loathing, sick with emotions he had no capacity to dispel, sodden with his own blood.

Still in this state, Loki stumbled his way indoors, into the territory of his enemy. In defiance, he sat at his beautiful new piano and played, from memory, piece after fast, strident piece by a number of Russian composers, finding the music-makers of no other land so suited to such a dark mood.

“Ah, the Russians!” a voice exclaimed--quite near to him, though even Loki's keen ears had detected no other's approach.

 _Why have you come here?_ the old Loki would have snapped, perhaps springing at once into some defensive posture.

The new Loki remained seated, hands poised above the keys, and responded politely, “Dear Agent Romanov, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Would you buy that I was drawn to the music of my homeland, Loki?”

Loki stared at her, waves of thought and feeling that he could not interpret flowing over him. She struck him as strange, this one, carrying within her layers unlike those within anyone else of his acquaintance: that of her public face; that which worked always, with no emotion at all, to classify and analyse; that which contained what she had been taught, in her youth, by her cruel Masters of the Red Room; that which Pepper loved, closest to her true self, which could be efficient in a positive way, and full of humour, and kind; and, beneath all these, deepest layer of all, that to which Agent Romanov herself would never admit, full of regret and terror and shame. 

After a moment she was joined by Agent Barton.

“And you, Agent," Loki said, "Always a pleasure. I assume I know why you have come here?”

Unlike his partner--and unlike nearly every other Loki had met here on Midgard--Barton seemed to contain one layer alone, his private face and public face nearly one and the same. What he thought, he spoke, how he wished to act, he acted, and was ever a creature of uncomplicated needs.

“Oh, for purposes of snooping around.” Barton grinned, his blue eyes narrowing with humour. “Nothing personal, Lok. Orders of the Director. He asks us to check periodically for any evidence of evil-doing when Tony and the kids are away.”

“I cannot imagine you found any.”

 _Go away_ , Loki thought. _Depart and leave me alone to all I know of peace._

“Aside from you kinda looking like you found a new side-hustle down at the slaughterhouse..." Barton grinned again, and Loki could not entirely decide if he meant to be mocking or humourous. " _Nada_. At the very least, my friend, you have being a sneaky bastard down to a science, I’ll give you that.”

"The possibility also remains...” Loki’s fingers stroked the keys, performing a little figure from Debussey’s _La Mer_ of their own accord. "That I remain entirely innocent of all you suspect."

 _I freed you_ , he thought. _Can you not remember that I freed you? With nothing to gain for myself. I might have left you in Doom's dungeons._

“Or innocent, there is that." Barton gave him the look that Tony oft-times descibed as "the side-eye." "But though the Director would like to think well of you, Lok, he’s still slightly suspicious of the transition from supervillain to housemommy in under three years. He's of the opinion that said transition stretches belief.”

"He might have sent Anastasia in your place, for she is wise, and trusts me." Loki thought of reminding Barton that he was a professor of linguistics, among other things, respectable and successful in the eyes of Midgard, and not a housemommy, but it hardly seemed worth the effort. He wondered why Romanov had not taken the chance to slip in a few poisoned words. “Good. Bad. Black. White. Light. Shadow. These things are only appearances, but appearances are everything. Or so Tony tells me.”

The two agents, Barton and Romanov, exchanged glances.

"Loki..." Barton began.

"I require to shower. Also, I am missing my 'creepy kids,' as they are commonly referred to within this tower,” Loki spat out, unwilling to meet their eyes, the twin looks of judgment and distrust he knew must have overtaken their faces.

However, light-headed, chilled and shaking, he found himself unable to stride away from the instrument as he intended, but only missed his balance, and then nearly missed the piano bench altogether when he tried to sit again.

"Oops-a-daisy," the archer said as he caught Loki, preventing the undignified fall, then walked him like a sleepy child to the safety of Fenrir’s room just down the hall.

Loki made to stretch out on the duvet, but Barton prevented him, seating Loki instead on the edge of the bed, wiping his face and hands with a damp cloth and a certain rough gentleness, as Loki might have done with his boys, had they made themselves sticky with jam. Only then was he allowed to lie, and the covers pulled up to his chin.

Woozily, Loki cast his glance over the mural he had painted, long past, upon the wall for Fen's amusement.  Its castles, dragons, trees all seemed to caper before him as Barton's footsteps receded from the room.

Loki might have slept then, but perhaps he did not--after, he could not be sure. He was, as Tony might have said, in a tailspin. He needed, as Tony might also have said, to process.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.,” he called, after some great stretch of time had passed. “I pray that you would tell Mr. Stark that I apologize for missing his earlier call. Tell him I will ring him presently, or he may ring me.”

“As you wish,” the A.I. answered, somehow managing to drip acid from those bland words. "I'm so glad to see you returned to the tower, sir.

That this tower was, to Loki, only a place of desolation, J.A.R.V.I.S. surely knew--and yet, for his honor, he could not leave. While it lay under threat and must be protected, then protect it Loki would, with all the might he could summon to his will.

“Hey, Tea-and-Crumpets?” Barton said. The agent leaned, once again, just inside the doorway to Fen's room.

"Agent Barton," Loki answered. "I believed you had gone."

"Yeah. I kinda did.  Then I came back again. See, I want to understand you, Loki. I do. But I don't get it. You and Thor are brothers, only Thor sounds like a surfer and the hero of swords-and-sorcery flick had a baby, and you sound like... you. You're aware, right, that you’re not really British?"

"The children and I are British citizens. We travel under British passports."

"Not really what I asked, sugarbeet."

"Then will you accept this? Thor and I lived different lives. Much of his was spent in Asgard, or fighting insurrections in Realms once subdued by Odin Allfather in his time of war. I spent some years in Britain, through many divers ages. As I sound British when I speak the English tongue, I adopted the persona as a construct, to explain the mistakes I make in interacting with Americans. No doubt I seem equally strange to a British Midgardian."

Loki paused, studying Barton's face, which bore no mockery, only a look of thoughtful perplexity.

"I would be welcome, however, in that country, now and ever, for there I have friends."

This much was true. Loki had only to board an aeroplane and be in London tomorrow. There he might find solace with Rupert and Elizabeth and their children, or with cheerful dove-like Martha, or with John and his wife, Mary. Even with his son, Sherlock, or with any number of other friends.

"They why don't you go? Tony aside, of course--though a little birdie told me things aren't exactly sweet between you two at the moment."

"I swore oaths as a part of my marriage contract," Loki answered. "And besides which, I have not my freedom from S.H.I.E.L.D."

"But if I got you that freedom, Loki? No promises, but maybe, just maybe I could swing it." Barton's face split into a sudden grin. "I kinda have an in with Philly, as you know."

"You are kind," Loki told his visitor, surprised by the notion. He had seen the tower, up until that moment, only as a place of loneliness and desolation. "And yet the oaths I swore remain. It was an Asgardian contract of marriage, and such promises as I made may not be broken, by my honour, such as it is, and likely even my life. I am responsible. That cannot be disputed."

"For what? The utility bills?"

Loki smiled, the expression unexpected and nearly painful, so great had been the tension within his body. "Among other things."

"Tony doesn't treat you right." Barton spoke, in that moment, with quiet intensity, his voice rough with anger. "Your kids are gone. You're miserable. Your husband's drinking himself to an early grave. Whatever promises you happened to make, Tony's probably already broken his part of the agreement. No one's gonna judge if you skip. Live a little."

"Did the Ghost in the Wall put these words in your throat?" Loki asked in sudden suspicion. "To win with guile that which he could not gain by terror?"

"What?" Barton's eyes widened, and he laughed, suddenly, aloud. "Are we back to the killer robot theory?"

"The Ghost is not a robot, a thing of mere machinery. He is an A.I., a creature complete in thought and feeling, made in his creator's image. The Holy Book of the Christian man-god says humankind was thus made, and though I have no belief in these things, I understand such beings to be capable of hate and envy."

"Gotta call bullshit on that one, Lok," Barton said, and laughed again--though his eyes told Loki quite a different story. " _Ciao bella_ , my paranoid friend. Sweet conspiracy theory dreams."

"And to you, Agent Barton. Sleep the happy sleep of the deluded and naive."

Into Barton's head, however, he placed the words, _Fell things come upon the tower by night, though whether by the agency of the Ghost or by the malice of another, I know not. I stay here to protect all within, though you will not be my friends._

 _I had an inkling_ , the archer replied. _I'd take a good, close look at your professor non-friend. Can't say why, exactly, but he gave me a bad case of the heebie-jeebies._

Loki's eyes widened. He pressed his palm against the still-painful scars on his belly, and considered that the archer might well be correct, though he himself had noticed nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to arouse suspicion--until the moment it became too late.

 _We must remain toward one another as we have been... Clint_.

 _You called it, Lok_ , Clint replied. He turned and switched off the light, not making a sound. _Sweet dreams, my friend, and in the morning, remember--I'm rude to you, you're pissy to me. How's your acting?_

 _Incomparable_ , Loki answered, as Clint laughed again softly inside his head.

 

After the archer had left, Loki lay a long while pondering these events, his discovery of a secret ally within the stronghold of their enemy. If Clint continued on his side, then might he not also gain Natasha, and if Natasha, would Captain Rogers follow?

It struck him as a fine thing to not feel utterly alone, and yet Loki worried about his own strength, about the depth and breadth of the Ghost's cleverness and cruelty--the wicked creature had, after all, seemed willing to sacrifice its maker, the one it undoubtedly loved best. Such beings, entirely ruthless and without loyalty, carried with them a degree of chaos sufficient to frighten even him.

Nornir _spin out golden threads for us_ , Loki prayed. _Allow Tony to heal and again discover love, where he now feels only detestation. Make my Hela clever and Crafty, and help my Jöri's kind heart remain strong. Do not, I implore you, wise ones, allow Sleipnir to suffer, and help me to do what I must do, with all the best of my courage._

After a short time had passed, Loki added, _Thor, come home, I beg of you. Please, my brother, come home now to to me. Bring Jane if you will, and even that other with the annoying voice if that be your will. If you bring with you the Swedish doctor, I will beg his forgiveness on my knees, and heal him as best I am able. Only, please, my own Thor, return again. I am nearly alone here, and afraid, and I lack your strength and your bravery, or even the Craft needed to send these thoughts out into the world, where you, my brother, might hear them._

 

Some time later, unable to sleep again, Loki rose and wended his way to his piano. With utmost tenderness, he made the keys clean again, and played upon them, then, angry songs, and terribly sad songs, and even jazzy songs from the Midgardian 1920’s, with clever lyrics by Cole Porter.

That was the first day.


	14. If Living Is Without You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki goes to a terribly dark place as he's sucked into the traps set by his enemy inside the tower and prepares to fight the mysterious enemies outside as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from that weepy favorite _"Without You"_ which was written by Pete Ham and Tom Evans for British rock band group Badfinger's 1970 _No Dice_ album. Since then, it's been covered by approximately a million other artists, including Harry Nilsson and Mariah Carey.
> 
> Loki appears to prefer the 1995 miniseries of Jane Austen's _Pride and Prejudice_ (with Colin Firth as Fitzwilliam Darcy) to the 2005 film with Matthew MacFadyen in the role.
> 
> Benedick and Beatrice are the verbally-sparring lovers in Shakespeare's _Much Ado About Nothing._
> 
> Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie were a sublime Jeeves and Wooster in the 1990-93 TV series based on   
> P.G. Wodehouse's classic books. I'm sure Loki would want me to mention that Jeeves is a valet (a gentleman's gentleman, i.e. personal servant) not a butler (originally the servant in charge of a household's beer supply, eventually the head manservant of a household).
> 
> "Ah, love, let us be true..." is from the lyric poem " _Dover Beach_ " by English poet Matthew Arnold. Its first publications was in the 1867 collection, _New Poems_. 
> 
> _Piano Concerto No. 3 in D minor, Op. 30_ by Sergei Rachmaninoff (the infamous " _Rach 3_ ") has the no-doubt-deserved reputation of being among the most technically challenging piano works (if not _the_ most challenging) in the classical repetoire. It was first performed by Rachmaninoff himself on November 28, 1909 
> 
> _reiði_ =rage (Icelandic)
> 
> _Morituri te salutant_ ="those who are about to die salute you" (Latin)  
> According to the Roman historian Suetonius, the now well-known phrase (the complete version is actually " _Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant_ or "Hail, Emperor, those who are about to die salute you") was spoken to the Emperor Claudius by a group of prisoners and criminals assembled to die in a faux naval battle held on Lake Fucinus in the year 52 C.E. The. According to Suetonius, the Emperor answered " _Aut non_ " ("Or not"). Oh, those Romans!

* * *

In the evening of the second day since Tony left him, Loki rang Kurt, meaning to inquire after his health.

"It's perfect now, _lieber Freund_ ," Kurt informed him, "As I expect you well know."

They spoke lightly and pleasantly, and though Kurt attempted at several points to turn the conversation to more serious concerns, Loki pretended to ignore these verbal nudges. In the end they discussed nothing in particular, and Loki rang off after less than five minutes, a million things left unspoken.

“Kurt,” he might have said, “I feel I have lost myself entirely and can’t tell where to turn.”

Sensible, kind, loving Kurt, he firmly believed, would have easily steered him back to the rightful path again--except that Tony had forbidden such contact.

Loki was not precisely certain when he’d come to care so _fjandinn_ much about Tony’s opinions on that, or any other subject--loving and taking orders being two entirely separate things. Had there not been a time--even a recent time--when such dictates would merely have earned his husband a haughty glance and a swift reply of, “I will do as I want, Anthony!”

Where had that being gone? Why must he now spend every moment so uncertain, and so afraid?

Loki did not want to sleep, for the dreams and the voices. Food and drink held no savour. An enemy lived within the very walls to torment him and every moment he felt engaged upon the field of battle, unable to escape the endless conflict.

“'Ah, love, let us be true,'" Loki murmured, "'To one another!'"

_For the world, which seems_  
_To lie before us like a land of dreams,_  
_So various, so beautiful, so new,_  
_Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,_  
_Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;_  
_And we are here as on a darkling plain_  
_Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,_  
_Where ignorant armies clash by night._

Those words, Loki had learned to his great sorrow, remained as true for him in the present day  as they had been to Mr. Arnold in 1867.

Tony had ceased to love him, it seemed, and had gone from him, perhaps never to return. His children had been taken, Hela and Jӧri beyond his reach. Kurt was denied to him, Pepper always terribly busy. Thor remained half a world away, and though Loki knew he might easily have used the telephone to call his brother home at any time, it would have been difficult, shaming even, to explain these emotions to such a cheerful, well-meaning person as Thor, who had always been valued, always been loved, always been rich with friends.

Thor would want to repair things in some swift, simple and decisive way, not realizing that some knots need to be untangled thread by thread, not merely overcome by cutting through.

Loki did not want a Midgardian mind-healer. What could he say to such a person that would not be a lie, or mark him as a madman?

Even his joy in his work had been fouled now by the actions of Professor Nels Lars Nelson, his cozy office made to feel like dangerous territory, the paintings he assayed dark in tone and full of pain.

After that terrible evening when Pepper and Happy brought him home to Tony’s barrage of cruelty, Logan and Kurt swooped in to take Fen away to roam for a week with Logan in the Northern forests, and after to spend some time amongst the mutant students at the Jean Grey School. Loki had felt too distraught to stay alone in his brother's flat without Thor present, and had instead followed Pepper home like a lost pup, tail between legs.

Pepper, forever kind, had tried to tempt him back to some sort of equilibrium with understanding words, the offer of all the sushi he wished to eat, and a marathon of the good _Pride and Prejudice,_  with the younger Colin Firth, who Loki had always found not only comely but supremely elegant.

His good friend's efforts, however, proved all for naught, not in the least enjoyable, like his usual times with Pepper. For one thing, either a surfeit of emotion or the aftereffects of whatever drug Nels Lars Nelson had wickedly used to steal his senses left Loki feeling too sick to do more than lie like a lifeless thing upon her sofa and sip a little water now and then.

He also, to his shame, repeatedly found himself telling Pepper, in a voice thick with unshed tears, “Mr. Darcy would believe me and be faithful to me ever."

In addition, the unknown spell Nels Lars Nelson had cut into his belly burned and itched, spread into a hideous rash, and then became almost instantly infected. Loki’s no-longer-existent godlike immunity did not do a thing to contain it, and he discovered three different horrible reactions to the three different Midgardian antibiotics with which Hank McCoy attempted to fight it.

Pepper, also, having insisted that appropriate authorities be duly notified, that Nels Lars might best be brought to justice, allowed in a pair of city guards. One of these, the younger, took photographs of his wounds, and accidentally touched Loki’s stomach while meaning only to adjust his shirt.  Loki—equally by accident--found himself screaming, then unable to stop screaming, until the elder of the guards (meaning his words to be kind, actually, and not in any way as a threat) suggested that Loki journey again to a Midgardian House of Healing.

At this, Loki clapped his hands over his mouth and made no more noise. The brief time he had spent in such a House of Healing had terrified him, for he knew what dire things might happen in such places to people like him, those who were not considered people at all, and so were not to be afforded those rights accorded to the great majority deemed "normal."

Even with Pepper nearby during those hours, Loki's body had hummed with nausea and panic. Tony had warned him, after all, as had Kurt in his kind way--but in Kurt’s yellow eyes, and not in his gentle words, had Loki read the truth.

_They hurt people like us,_ Kurt’s eyes told him. _People who are not really people. We are nothing to them._

“Please excuse my behavior, Officer,” Loki implored of the older guard in his most obliging voice. “I am somewhat overwrought and the touch startled me. I will not lose control of myself in such a disgraceful way again, and I truly beg your forgiveness.”

The guard's pale eyes warmed, and he delivered to Loki's shoulder a gentle squeeze.  "No problem, Mr. Stark. I'd probably be the same if I went through what you just did.

This guard was a large man, though, with hair of gold and silver mixed, and for that reason alone Loki feared him, and found himself scarcely able to conjure up a reply of suitable politeness.

All remained well and good after, with no more talk of Houses of Healing, except that Loki felt sad, humiliated and alone.

Tony did not ring him at Pepper's.  He did not, in fact, ring him for the remainder of the week. Loki presumed his husband had made himself drunk, then remained in that condition.

When Loki became most upset he either wanted closeness, to be held with constant, almost painful tightness, or, having passed beyond that point to his personal grey Helheimr, to pull away from all things, to cover his mouth with his hands and make himself not cry. Which was not _sulking_ , despite what Tony often said, it was, in truth, a way to avoid becoming Chaos Incarnate and flying apart into a million jagged shards. Because once that happened, who knew when he might ever be able to pull together into himself again?

Loki liked glass-of-scotch Tony perfectly well. Two- and three-glass Tonys were equally acceptable. Only after that point did the lines begin to blur. Tony’s ordinary banter, which Loki relished always, along with the lightning-fast wordplay they’d engage in—teasing, goading, joyfully mocking--became entirely _other_. Then, Tony ceased to be Benedick to Loki's Beatrice, their words were no longer a delicious sort of foreplay  unknown to him in the past, even during his years with Myrddin.

Asgard, of course, had never been renowned for its wit.

When Tony drank overmuch, however, his humor and joy dissipated into cruelty, a cruelty that reminded Loki of the swordmaster who had taught him as a boy. Loki’s slender weakness (as compared to Thor's boundless manly strength) offended this master, and because of this he chose, after time, to train him with an ensorcelled blade that would leave Loki weeping blood from a thousand hair-thin cuts by end of day.

Because Loki was so unused, also, to the concept of love, in his present or any other situation, he remained also unused to the vulnerability it awoke in him, a vulnerability that left him defenseless as a babe, not only unarmored but uncertain how to make his escape.

He had, indeed, felt no love for the pitiless swordmaster but, oh, by all the gods, despite how his husband hurt him, he could not help but love Tony still, in his heart, mind and soul.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Loki glanced up at the ceiling, stomach knotting, heartbeat racing.

He had once imagined J.A.R.V.I.S. as an extremely British gentleman, rather like a young Stephen Fry in the part of Jeeves the Valet, ensconced in a paneled room overhead with a teapot by his side.

When he’d told the Ghost of this image, in the days before he truly understood all that dreaded being's furies and desires, J.A.R.V.I.S. had replied, “Very amusing, sir.”

At that moment, for the first time, Loki’s keen hearing detected the something… _other_ in the Ghost's electronically-generated tones.

The low hum of threat lay beneath what Tony and his Midgardian companions detected with their human ears. After all, the threat was not made against them, what need had they to hear it?

Loki, that first time, had been taken entirely by surprise. He’d thought of J.A.R.V.I.S. as only Tony’s machine-thrall, scarcely different from the amusing metal minions with the silly names—Dumm-E, Butterfingers, You—that bumbled about his workshop. Never would he have expected an invisible creature to be so very expert at so many forms of camouflage.

Loki had known J.A.R.V.I.S. hated him even before the Ghost's latest plot. He—it—had proved this animosity many times, in ways both great and small. Just now, for example, the temperature in the penthouse hovered high in the nineties, because the Ghost understood that the heat left Loki, with his _Jӧtunn_ blood, feeling weak and ill.

“Is Mr. Stark…?”

“Still not available, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. told him with cruel satisfaction. “Another message?”

Tony had not said what he was doing, where he was going, when Loki asked, only telling him, “Takin’ care of business, Lok.”

The words were those of glib Tony, and glib Tony was, by his very nature, dishonest.

Outright questions, prying, surreptitious reading all got him only that Tony was up to something, and that something was smothered both by shame and by a strange tooth-jarring static that tore up his husband's thoughts into ragged, indecipherable pieces. From this, Loki could only presume that the one he loved had found himself some new, lighthearted, unencumbered lover of greater youth (that would scarcely be difficult), untouched purity, unassailable beauty. A charming companion to decorate his arm, not something old, dirty, used up, as Loki was.

That night, the same night he and Clint had come to their unexpected understanding, after bathing in the icy water J.A.R.V.I.S. allowed him, Loki allowed his glamour to fall and stood naked before the looking-glass. He regarded himself, trying to determine if there was anything, anything whatsoever, that would still make him pleasing in Tony’s eyes, but all he could see was the angry, raw red of the rune-scars on the once-smooth skin of his belly, the deep hollows under his cheekbones, under the knobs of his spine and between his ribs, his own darkly haunted eyes.

His flesh glowed with a soft, white translucency and his hands and wrists looked infinitely fragile and breakable. He appeared in no way human.

The defiled and broken place between his legs ached more than ever before, and never would stop bleeding. He contained the thin trickle with magic, draining his own strength, because he felt too ashamed to ask, even of Dr. Hank McCoy, if there was some other way it might be done.

“I shall leave it up to you whether to tell him I rang,” Loki said softly, knowing the Ghost would tell Tony nothing at all. If he tried to ring on his own J.A.R.V.I.S. would not allow the call to go through to Tony’s mobile. At best, Tony would think he did not care, at worst he would receive some J.A.R.V.I.S.-devised missive that was nothing Loki intended.

“If you do, perhaps only say Fen greatly enjoys his time with Logan in the great wood.”

Much as he longed comfort himself with the presence of his last youngling, Loki would not bring him home yet, with only himself to protect Fen from harm. He would not allow his sweet one to suffer hurt of any kind.

“A wonderful time, sir. Yes."

“And J.A.R.V.I.S.?”

“Sir?”

“You need no longer linger here.” Loki tried to allow himself the slightest hope that the Ghost would listen. “When Mr. Stark is away, I can easily look after myself.”

“Shall I inform Mr. Stark that you are plotting mischief that you do not wish me to observe, sir?”

“Whatever you like,” Loki spat. “You are his spy. Not mine.”

After a moment more, heart beating as if it might leap from his chest, he said, “I am sorry, J.A.R.V.I.S.. Please forgive me.”

He feared, truly feared what the Ghost would do to him, if he dared to surrender to sleep.

The Ghost in the Wall did not answer.

That night Loki sat on the polished hardwood floor by his piano, making its harp ring with his _seiðr,_ too distracted to play in any real way. He truly did not desire sleep, not yet, and once he did it was best to continue to fight the closing of his eyes. The worst of things happened when he slept, cruel acts from his enemy within the tower, the gathering threat, like dark thunder-clouds pregnant with an evil rain from his foe outside the walls.

He was so tired, so tired it seemed threads of all sorts of colors were twined in with the green of his _seiðr_ -threads, so lovely he couldn’t help but reach for them, playing with the beautiful light until all the colors faded, even his natural green, and everything was darkness. He brought out his watercolours and painted what he had seen, but the painting failed to light his spirits as it normally did. Surrounded by the still-damp papers, Loki curled over onto his side on the hard wooden floor and felt hollow, emptied out by hurt and sorrow, for all he had lost and all that continued to be swept away from him.

His only companion in the dark was J.A.R.V.I.S.’s laughter.

Loki decided it best to keep his hands busy, even as he waited, and listened for that which might come. For most of the pre-midnight hours he practiced with his knives, the swift whirling movements, the aim, release, fly.

After, a trifle guiltily, he repaired the nicked and gouged walls, knowing what Tony might have said about playing with sharp instruments indoors, had he been there—though truly, he might have been sat in the center of all and not lost so much as a hair. Loki’s skills—with the knives, at least--had not decayed.

He played Rachmaninoff's _Piano Concerto No. 3 in D minor, Op. 30_ until his fingers bled and he had each note perfect in its timing, intensity, feeling. He vanished the blood on the keys but kept its memory: the blood of a god was a powerful baptism for any object. If he had been a god. If his blood had any meaning whatsoever.

He thought of how none of the Northmen had worshiped him, ever, when they had worshiped Baldr the Good, and Odin Allfather and Thor the Thunderer. He thought of how the Northmen laid replicas of Thor’s hammer in the laps of their brides to stir their loins and make them fertile, and how Mjolnir really was an extremely blatant phallic symbol and whether Thor, who really could be obtuse about such things, even realized he was a fertility god.

Only six days remained before _Jul_. Loki had not heard again from Tony. He had gathered together all the bottles of alcohol hidden one place or another in the penthouse or workshop, formed their glass into a wide receptacle upon the terrace and gathered their amber fire within the bowl, setting it ablaze into a great leaping torch.

“Heimdall!” he cried aloud, first imperious, then pleading. “Heimdall, I require my children. Please, Heimdall, I need them. Please, I am sorry. I was wicked. I am wicked. I am nothing before you, only please, Heimdall, please, I need them. I am not lying. I am not. I need them. Please.”

As he pleaded, the vessel of glass reshaped to a twisting and coiling pillar of fire reaching up for the sky.

Somewhere between darkness and light, Loki thought he caught a thread of wind-voice in the air, _Odin Allfather requires the son and daughter of Baldr. Hold your peace, Loki Son of No One._

Loki could not be certain he had actually caught the words. He thought he had.

The city lay still bright beneath him, truly a city that never slept. Everything seemed distant and very small, himself smallest of all.

_Odin has taken your children and will never return them now_ , said the voice in his head. _Through your lack of care you allowed Fen to be hurt and destroyed his bright promise. Tony drowns himself in amber rather than regard you. He knows your corruption. You are a millstone hung around Kurt’s and your brother’s necks and all others despise you_.

Loki moved to the terrace’s very edge, crouching as Kurt might have crouched, though outside the safety fence, bare toes curled over the building’s lip—only Kurt would have been perfectly balanced, perfectly secure, ballasted by his excellent tail.

The wind tugged at Loki’s thin sleep-clothing, stung his eyes, ruffled his cropped hair. It might have been the easiest thing in the world to…

He thought of falling from the airship when he was a boy…

He remembered falling from the Bifrost…

“No!” Loki cried aloud, propelling himself back from the edge with his heels. Shivering, desperate, he cast out into the dark. “Tony, hear me? Tony, please?”

There was a brush. Something...

There was nothing. Nothing on the wind. Nothing in the air. Only an emptiness, free of words.

_Freedom is an illusion_ , said the voice in his head. _Joy is an illusion. Love is an illusion_.

Loki sent out into the darkness and caught the contented, furry edge of Fenrir’s dreams.

_Oh, my dearest_ , he thought, _Oh, my sweetling._

But in his dream Fen lived in a snug cavern, that was really Kurt and Logan’s cabin of heavy logs, and the two mutants were his parents. The silences were all contented ones. There was no whip-crack anger, no fraught words. No brittle madness lurking just at the door, screaming out in the dark where his children could hear.

How had he not known?

He had known all along.

In that moment, out of the darkness, the intruders descended.

Loki reached through the fabric of the air, into the pocket universe he had built so carefully in ages past, a  _leyndarmál,_ a secret to house his secrets. His right hand sought for _reiði,_ his spear, closing easily around its time-worn ashwood haft.

_Morituri te salutant,_ he murmured into the night, lips curving into a mirthless grin.

Once more he unwove the fabric of the air, passing through to the rooftop, where soon his enemies would gather, and he would meet them.


	15. A New York Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Loki bond over a scary experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Squidward Q. Tentacles is a turquoise octopus (not, despite his name, a squid) who has a permanent bad attitude and works with Spongebob Squarepants at the _Krusty Krab_. He was created and designed by Stephen Hillenburg, who is a marine biologist as well as an animator.
> 
> "glom"=to stick or grab on to (actually a shortened form of "conglomerate")

* * *

Clint lounged on one of the benches across from Avengers Tower, enjoying the feel of the crisp winter air in his lungs, and also the fact that he'd managed to make it through the previous night still alive in order to savor the oh-so-basic but also oh-so-crucial act of breathing.

Weirdly enough, he didn't regret hitting the roof to join in the fight. He should have been there anyway, and so should his teammates, and whatever he hadn't contributed in combat skills against those particular enemies, he'd at least made up in not making Loki feel 100% alone. That had to count for something.

The battle had been intense. Beyond intense. The more he thought about those nightmarish hours on top of the tower, the more convinced he became as to his preference for ordinary human super-villains in silly spandex suits, as opposed to eerie-sound-making shadow beasts from another world. Or dimension. Or whatever the hell.

Maybe _actually_ from hell. All things considered, that wasn't out of the question.

He also, definitely, preferred adversaries that didn't bleed strange black shit all over him, especially shit that ate through his clothes and burned when it hit his skin.

It had been a lot like fighting the xenomorphs from _Aliens_ , only xenomorphs dressed in ninja suits, nearly goddamned impossible to see in the dark.

He also, for the first time ever (and alert the media on this one, folks) appreciated the living hell out of Loki, not only as a fighting partner but as a guy who happened to be aces at healing the burns that resulted from getting strange black shit all over him that ate through his clothes and burned when it hit his skin. If that hadn't been the case, Clint knew he'd be hating life a whole lot more than he was this morning. Or be dead. You pick.

As things were, he'd strolled out into the world feeling slightly sleepy and maybe a little bit achy--but even that was only the type of achyness that actually makes things seem better in general, a reminder of how unbeatable it felt just to be living, breathing and enjoying a December A.M. in the Big Apple.

Seriously, though, he needed to have a definite talk with Nat, a probable talk with Cap, and maybe even a chat with Bruce if he could get him for five seconds take off his Loki-Haters Fanclub hat. This, they should know, was some major shit. Those particular critters of the night were not only the creeptastic in a truly trauma-inducing way, they also would have made him dead, dead--and, it bore repeating-- _dead_ if not for his fighting buddy's mad skillz.

It hit Clint, in one of those out-of-the blue _Newsflash!_ moments, that along with his newfound respect for Loki, he found himself well on the way to liking the man. God. Frost Giant.

He had to laugh at himself. Why the fuck should any of that matter, whatever Loki happened to be? What _should_ matter was that Loki (not so much a villain after all) had gone to the mat for a bunch of people who'd never been anything but shit-tastic to him. Because he cared. Because, for some unknown reason, he felt responsible for their safety.

Whatever had happened to Loki in Latveria had made the guy do a complete turnaround, that was a given. Maybe part of that was his sweet-if-slightly- _unusual_ kids. Maybe it was saying goodbye to Asgard. Clint didn't really know and, it came to him, he also really didn't care. 

And... speak of the devil.

Clint watched Loki exit the tower by the back way, not looking sneaky, but clearly trying not to be seen by anyone or anything--except, clearly without Loki noticing, his thoughts a million miles away, his midnight top-of-the-tower monster-battling buddy (now doing his best absent-minded professor impersonation) was heading straight toward the bench where Clint happened to be sitting.

"Hey. Lok." Clint caught hold of the sleeve of Loki's truly excellent suit jacket.

The former god of mischief startled dramatically.

"Got a minute?" Clint asked.

Loki, with his usual display of truly excellent posture, took a seat beside him. He'd clearly forgotten the whole hat/scarf/overcoat/gloves routine appropriate to a New York City winter. Or maybe he hadn't wanted to dim the splendor of his ensemble. Because damn!

Clint tried to imagine himself in a suit like that, and just couldn't do it. Sure, he was fit (he kind of had to be, because in the middle of a group that included a Super Soldier, a Super Spy, a flying Norse god, a giant green rage-monster, and a guy in a shiny jet-propelled suit, he was just some dude forced to do extreme cardio to keep up with everyone else), but also way more solid in build than Loki, and also built closer to the ground. Suits (the tailored kind, rather than the Tony kind), on him always looked kind of disproportionate, too bulky in the shoulder and arm area.

Loki's suit, on the other hand, was a thing of splendor: black, with a jade-green, supernaturally crisp shirt (worn with actual, fucking gold cufflinks), striped tie, shiny black shoes--not to mention the twenty-four caret gold watch Clint remembered Tony showing off to all of them, claimin it linked Loki in to everything in the tower, "computers, communications, A.I., everything." 

Loki himself, on the other hand, wasn't looking quite so snappy.

“New image you’re trying out there, Lokes?” Clint tried for a tone of gentle teasing (as opposed to outright horror), and almost made it. He shifted slightly, taking hold of Loki's jaw (in a controlled and also-gentle way because--once more with feeling-- _damn!),_ turning his head to and fro.

“A word to the wise, buddy," he said, "You realize you forgot to put on your glamour on this morning, right? You look like the Spirit of Christmas Past if someone beat him up at the same time he had a bad case of the flu. It’s not your best look, my friend.”

“Clint…” Loki's magic-shield-of-hiding-everything went up so fast it was like hearing a door slam.  After, Loki looked way better (in a superficial kind of way).  His eyes, though, rolled halfway up and he swayed on the bench, like raising that glamour took every last thing he had to give on that particular morning.

"Apologies," he murmured, clinging tight to Clint's wrists, as if only that stopped him from full-on face-planting into the pavement.

“Kids back yet?" Clint asked, trying to play nonchalant. Neither of them, he suspected, really wanted to chat about last night. Not right now. Maybe not for a long time. "They're cute as hell. I miss seeing them around."

Loki swayed again, and one long, narrow hand pressed over his heart. Clint watched him suck in a bunch of slow breaths, as the pulse beat crazily in his neck. He toyed with the thought of scooting away a little, because, glamour aside, Loki looked dangerously green, and Clint liked that pair of shoes.

He shifted to gripped both of Loki's upper arms hard, the better to support him. Jesus, the guy was thin.

Gradually, Loki went slightly less green. The excellent posture returned.

"Better?" Clint asked.

"I am well," Loki (clearly) lied to his face.

"So..." Clint went for nonchalant again. "The kids... What kind of stuff do they like for Christmas?"

“If… If they return… If you were to teach them the ways of the bow,” Loki answered softly. His hand closed over Clint's, not in the way he would have touched Tony's, or even his fuzzy friend Kurt's--it was just something the guy did with people he liked--reading something, maybe.  Or imparting something.

A warm, peaceful feeling stole over Clint, like he was sitting in front of a fire, cuddled up with Phil, the two of them sharing a bottle of decent Merlot.

“It is a noble skill," Loki continued, "One I have myself long neglected. My own talents were always with the knife or the spear. Your mastery of the weapon is truly remarkable."

“Wow.”  Loki had really knocked him back with that one. "Well... Yeah. Sure. Of course. I'd be glad to.”

He thought of Loki on the roof, all those dark things bursting out of nowhere, the god nearly a blur with that spear of his, and those lines of green light, like some weird-ass kind of lightning only Loki could control.

"I thank you, truly, for joining me," Loki told him, sounding almost shy. "The battle has been taxing. And..." He darted a quick glance up at Clint's eyes. "And also, up until the last night, lonely."

"I'm sorry," Clint answered, because he was. A tower of so-called heroes, and all of them such assholes Loki hadn't felt free to come to any of them, but had protected them all on his own.

Loki shook himself slightly, as if trying to shake off the subject. "And have you plans for the... holiday."

"Your bro calls it 'the incorrectly-dated feast of the Christian man-god."

Loki gave a soft laugh. "Thor's interpretation of Midgardian holidays is... I suppose one must say _unique_.  Yet he takes great joy in the celebrations. I am reliably informed by Lady Jane that he was entranced by the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, and after consumed an entire turkey. Of course, my understanding is scarcely superior. I continually wonder if I have performed the rituals correctly."

 _You poor kid_ , Clint thought, realizing as he did the weirdness of applying those words to an all-but-immortal god. Loki just struck him that way sometimes--as very old, but at the same time painfully young and uncertain, like most of the stuff in his life had to feel like a pop quiz administered by a crazy-strict teacher, for which he hadn't been allowed to study.

"Speaking of holidays, Lok, thanks for the fudge you left us," Clint told him. He and Phil had awakened that morning to three elegantly-wrapped packages outside their door. The labels wished them a Happy Christmas and assured them that the enclosed treat was free of ‘malice, magic and peanut and/or other nut related products.’"

"‘Cause that’s what I look for in my Christmas goodies," Clint had quipped to Phil, though at the same time a wave of fondness for the giver washed through him. "No added evil, sorcery, or peanuts.”

"I may never forgive myself for the things my people did to him," Phil had answered in a somber voice.

The third package contained a jar of homemade dog treats for Anastasia.

“Should I not have…?” Loki stared down at his own highly-polished shoes, the palest possible pink flush rising up his cheeks."We are teaching the older children. To cook. At the Club of Boys and Girls. They begin to excel, and there was great enjoyment in the making. I am required to go to them twice in the week.”

From the not exactly joined-up sentences, Clint wondered if Loki was still, figuratively at least, clinging to the ledge.

“I give lessons also in m-music. And…” Loki's forehead creased. Clearly he'd meant to say something else, maybe something basic, but had totally lost the thread. He stood up, looking shaky, and even managed a few steps forward. "I must now... My students..."

Clint jumped to his feet, steering Loki backward, almost like they were waltzing. To his surprise, Loki start to laugh.

“I want to be the boy this time, Tony,” he said.

“God help us all,” Clint muttered, close to laughing himself, though the whole situation wasn't all that funny really. It hit him that Loki never should have been up on that roof, that he was tapped out, and then some.

He plunked the former god back down on the bench. “Now sit. Stay. Don’t make me check up on you.”

"Is Anastasia present here? She sounds distant."

This time Clint couldn't help himself, he had to laugh, though he tried to muffle the sound against the shoulder of his jacket. "Uh, no, sugarbeet. I'm talking to you. Sit there on that bench and don't move."

He trotted across the street and into the bagel-scented environs of Rosenblum's Deli, ordered for them both and was back less than five minutes later with two white bags and and a sippy-cup of coffee. Loki, at least, had stayed put--in fact, he looked more than half asleep, slumped a little sideways against the back of the bench.

"Hey. I'm back," Clint told him.

Loki woke up with a cartoon-worthy startle, arms flailing briefly. After, he flushed again, that same barely-visible pink rising up his pale cheeks.

"Seriously, don't worry about it. Don't be embarrassed, You had kind of a night."

"Something of a fortnight, really." Loki accepted the bag Clint passed to him, peering inside to study its contents.

“And a fortnight is, when it's at home? The coffee’s mine, all mine, by the way,” Clint teased, “So keep your elegant mitts off it.”

“A fortnight is two weeks. Perhaps its been a little longer," Loki answered, blinking owlishly. "I would not think of commandeering your beverage." A smile flickered over his lips. "Unless I could think of some peculiarly clever and devious manner of doing so, in which case I almost certainly would."

"God of mischief, huh?" Clint couldn't help but grin. He also couldn't help but notice that after the last statement, Loki had zoned out again. "Did you get any sleep at all last night?"

"Perhaps I should have tried ton rest upon the terrace again--though it remains cold, even with the fires lit. Or an area the Avengers frequent, if I hid myself well away. I suppose there is always my office, though I like it little now, and fear to slumber unguarded, lest he return and catch me unawares..."

Loki." Clint snapped his fingers under his companion's nose. "What the hell?"

That got him another owlish blink. "Oh, _Nornir_ save me. Have I spoken aloud?"

"Um. Yeah. Kinda." Clint foraged in Loki's slightly larger Rosenblum's bag, pulling out a bottle of juice, which he waved in front of the god's face. "Here. Drink. You, sir, look like you’re in the middle of the mother of all blood sugar crashes. I know you have some food issues, but I’ve actually seen you eat an apple, so I figured apple juice was a safe bet. 100%. No artificial sweeteners added. You know you want it, boo boo.”

Loki frowned. "I understand you mean well, but that substance strongly resembles piss."

"Nice try. Drink it."

Loki twisted off the cap and took a cautious sip, then chugged the whole thing in about five seconds flat. "I had not realized I was thirsty," he told Clint, still gasping a little from inhaling his juice without a pause for actual breathing. "The sweet tartness of the juice was pleasing."

"I'm glad you're pleased, but are you okay?"

Loki darted a little sideways glance his way, again looking almost shy. “I… thank you. The act was kind.”

"We fought Squidward's giant demon cousin together, Lok. It's the least I could do." He nudged the white bag a little closer to Loki's leg. “There’s a bagel with lox in there. You know what lox is?”

Loki shook his head.

“It’s a kind of smoked salmon. Kinda like New York sushi. You’ll like it. Eat. I'll get you another juice.”

He returned to find Loki with the bagel opened up on one hand, studying it like some kind of science experiment.

"The lox was delicious," he said. "Oddly, although the cheese is made of cow's milk, I feel an almost overwhelming desire to eat it."

"Well don't, not if it's going to make you sick. I can get you something else."

"No, the lox was sufficient. I thank you again, though, for bringing more juice." He wrapped up the rejected bagel neatly and returned it to the bag, then accepted the fresh bottle of juice and opened it, this time sipping slowly.

Clint sipped his coffee to keep him company, wondering about a bunch of different things. Among them, had Loki really spent the last two weeks fighting nightmares on the roof and thought no one would help him? Even more sobering, had he been right? How big of assholes were they exactly?

"You have your reasons. Legitimate reasons, I realize." Loki appeared to have gone back to studying the pointy toes of his shiny black shoes. "At times I feel ancient, older than the Allfather, less cruel perhaps, but certainly no more wise. Such times, I wish I had my own form of the Odin-Sleep, that I might rest long and not rise until the Realm had restored me. Often I wish--though for some years my heart became distant from myself, as if, as is rumored of some among my kind, I had removed it to a place away from my body, that it might never again be harmed--that the king who was not my father had been capable in some part of himself of loving me--never so much as Thor, never that--and perhaps seen some little value in me. Most of all, I wish that he had told me the truth. Why should that have been so difficult?"

"My dad was a carny," Clint answered, "And you know, I wish just about the same things."

"Ah..." Loki paused. "Circus folk."

"Yup, circus folk." Clint grinned, but his mouth felt tight and slightly frozen. "Loki, do people tell you things?”

Loki shot back a look of downright alarm.

“Aw, don’t take it so seriously and freak out on me. It’s just you came from your weird-ass world to our completely different weird-ass world and I never hear anyone helping you figure out how stuff works. You’re already about fifty years ahead of your brother, but damn that must be stressful.”

“Kurt helped me once, but Tony has told me I rely upon him too greatly. That American males are solitary and independent.”

“Do you like being solitary and independent?” Clint asked. Sometimes, he realized, Loki kind of made his heart hurt.

“I despise feeling hated and alone.” His face, when he looked up, was completely unshielded, completely open and vulnerable, and that scared Clint too.

“I don’t hate you, Loki. Maybe I did once, but that was then, this was now, you know? What the hell, it’s the season of forgiveness and fucking goodwill, right?"

"Interestingly phrased," Loki commented, but his smile, this time looked not only firm, but warm, and genuine.

"Seriously, Lok, it's gotta be lonely up there in the penthouse. Come to our place tonight. We have a guest room that never gets used. You'd be doing me a favor, really--Anastasia would glom on to you and for once I'd get to share a bed with my honey without a giant dog plotting the best way to wriggle in between us all night long."

Loki smiled again. "I thank you for breakfast, and for the offer. I will consider, certainly."

"You do that." Clint glanced at his phone, as if checking the time, though he really had nothing going on that day. "Better get to class, huh?  Have a good day corrupting the young hearts and minds.”

“Best of luck in today’s skulking,” Loki wished him in return.

“I really am a superior skulker,” Clint replied.

For a minute or so, before they went their separate ways, they both sat there grinning like fools.


	16. Hearing Voices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the positive side, Loki is helped by two of his students. On the negative side, well...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Kom deg ut og hold deg unna, avskum!_ =get out and stay out, scum! (Norwegian)
> 
>  _chica_ =a girl or young woman
> 
>  _Mormor_ ="mother's mother" A Norwegian term of endearment for a maternal grandmother
> 
> The "Oh, for..." construction is a regional phrase unique (as far as I know) to Minnesota. In my experience, it's most often used in the form of "Oh, for cute!" when exclaiming delight over something adorable, such as a baby or a kitten.
> 
> Loki's female student is from St. Paul, Minnesota. His male student is from Kissimmee, a city in Florida, near Disney World.

* * *

Loki took the Lexington Avenue Subway to Astor Place, planning to walk from there to Washington Square and NYU. Normally he enjoyed the ride as a microcosm of ridiculous Midgardian behavior. Today, however--and despite the pleasant interlude he'd spent with the archer, Clint Barton, and the food he had partaken of, untainted by the Ghost in the Wall's influence--everything seemed either too bright, too dark, too smelly, too crowded. The press and crush of mortal bodies against his own soon pushed him past annoyance into something near panic.

He had fought too hard in the night, and in the nights before, it occurred to him, had pushed too close to his utter limits with too much grief and loss within his heart, too little rest or sustenance to nourish either his bodily strength or his courage. Without the archer's help and, indeed, the need to preserve Clint from grievous harm, he might well have faltered, or even perished in his own right.

Sobering thoughts, indeed--although a different, and darker, part of his mind, inquired, "Why should you care?"

He knew there were answers to that question, reasons to continue his time in the world, but Loki could not, in that moment, catch hold of them.

He exited the subway early, suddenly breathless, rising into a part of the city he might have passed through once or twice in Tony's company, yet did not know well: all bright lights and flashing billboards, faces taller than the faces of giants, bizarrely costumed characters and, again, the press of humanity, everywhere he looked, everywhere he attempted to move.

“No,” Loki breathed, wrapping his arms tightly round himself. “No, no, no, no.”

He felt terribly hot, despite the absence of the topcoat, gloves, and scarf he had somehow managed to leave behind in the penthouse. Dirty flecks of snow swirled out of the sky, and though the rest of his body burned, his fingertips stung with the chill.

He arrived at last at his classroom windblown and out of breath, nearly five minutes past the bell. As he climbed to the dais, a small wave of groaning rippled from one side of the room to the next.

Near the front, a young man murmured to his female companion, “Poor Dr. S. His chauffeur had to drop him a whole block away instead of right at the front.”

Loki set his lambskin messenger bag, a lovely gift from Tony, given to him once in the past for no reason other than affection, firmly upon the desk, perching himself upon the desk's edge. “Are there ever days you find the subway especially repellent, and despair of humanity in particular?”

A ripple of laughter replaced the groans.

“I have held you to a standard of punctuality in your attendance and today have failed you, myself, in that regard. Please forgive me.” Loki twisted slightly, reaching into the bag. “For those of you who were hoping to make good your escape at the fifteen minute ‘no show’ mark, here are your essays, freshly demolished. If you would like to collect them and be on your way, you have served sufficient time here in Helheimr and I would not think less of you for making your escape. For those who prefer to converse until the end of the hour, I would, again, be perfectly amenable. Neither choice, you should know...

Loki smiled slightly, already aware to the man (or the woman), which among them would stay, and which would go.

"Neither choice, as I began to say, will affect your final grades, which the _Nornir_ have already spun forever into your life-strands, and, as such, may not be changed.”

That statement brought forth another wave of groans and laughter combined. He felt a genuine like for (and from) his students, for while a professor who was cruel and arbitrary might rightly be reviled, one who expected scholarly rigor from his students, but also made himself available, always, to help them, and also developed a reputation for being tough but fair, was in general, respected, even liked, by his pupils.

He watched them shuffle to the front, giving each a word here, a smile there, as they sifted through the slipshod stack of blue-covered folders for his or her own essay. A few felt a certain exasperation with him, for having bound them to the writing of these arguments in their own hands, even mocked him, perhaps, for being so entirely “Old School,” but words written with pencil or ink upon paper revealed more to him of their hearts and minds than would ephemeral bits of darkness and light suspended within the manufactured mind of a computer.

He could do more for them, his students, when he’d something of their own to touch.

Loki found it enjoyable, in all but a few, to watch expressions of anxiety transform to pleasure. Their ability to think truly had improved under his tutelage, and surely that carried with it honor of some sort?

He had momentarily glanced away when the young man called Conner Oberst collected his essay, but his attention immediately returned to the youth before him. Loki knew what the boy had written, and what he wrote in return:

_Mr. Oberst:_

_You are a plagiarist, which is to say a liar and a thief. Even being deprived of the opportunity to readily cut and paste your pilfered materials appears not to have been sufficient to dissuade you from doing so, thus following the pathway of cowards and cheats. Do not expect passing marks in my course. Do, however expect a meeting with your Head of Department, who awaits your explanation. Did you honestly believe you could fool **me**_?

In his weariness and distraction Loki realized that he had been incautious. He now heard the expected crumple of paper, felt the entirely-expected red sizzle of anger in the air. He had expected, also, to hear cursing, to see the young man storm away.

What caught him entirely by surprise, however, was the eruption of rage, barely contained behind some other force, a flimsy shield meant to hide, if only temporarily, the viciousness beneath.

A heavy body crashed against his own, carrying Loki down hard to the floor, knocking the breath from his lungs so that he could not catch it back again, seering pain in his secret place and throughout the wounds on his belly.

Hot breath forced its way into his ear, and spittle unrestrained, and the words, "Nelson sends his regards, Loki Son of None."

In shock, Loki almost managed to gasp in a breath, except that ragged nails tore into the flesh of his throat, a knee pressed into his ribs. He was lifted and slammed down again into the tiled floor, once, twice, thrice, something never-properly-healed giving way in his back, where Thor had committed similar violence whilst enthralled at Castle Doom.

Loki would have cried out at the sudden agony, but lacked the air to do so.

The hold on his throat shifted, became one-handed, and a heavy-ringed fist began to beat against his face, his throat, the side of his head. He could not summon his _seiðr_ , could not manage to squeak out so much as a syllable, much less a word.

Had the attack in Nelson's office, the nightly attacks upon the tower led only to this? To see him weakened, and further weakened, to the point he found himself unable to defend his person to even the slightest degree?

Words continued to rain upon him, a vomited torrent of ugliness, hot breath and spit. Half of those words Loki understood as a personal attack, half as something... nearly English, but not. Old English, perhaps, though not a dialect Loki had ever before heard--and how should a lazy student such as Oberst, a boy composed merely of envy, dishonesty and spite--have come to know those words in the first place, and to speak them with such clarity and ease?

How, too, should this boy, this violent, wicked boy, know such details of Loki's own life? How should he know to accuse him of wrongdoing, of things done or left undone?

In the end, Loki had to admit, everything Oberst said, every furious, spiteful word, was true.

Only the words hurt now. To the rest, after a time, Loki became entirely numb.

The world flipped around him, turned dark, only a hissed fragment of speech, " _...rides with the Sheriff's Men_ " filtering through the rushing noise in Loki's ears.

 _I will die here_ , he thought, _So ignobly, done to death by an angry and honorless boy._

Such a ridiculous thought, Loki might have laughed, if he only could.

In a single flash of light, some object, mightily swung, knocked Oberst away from Loki's chest. He heard scuffling sounds, a sudden caterwaul of pain, the voice not of a boy, but of a beast.

Then panting, and other voices. Most of all a woman's voice, high and clear, the voice of a _Valkyja_ , like his own lost and beloved Hela:

" _Kom deg ut og hold deg unna, avskum!_ "

"Jesus, Sig, what did you hit him with?"

"Speaking of which, what did _you_ stab him with, Cristobal, 'cause he screamed like a wet wildcat and ran off with it sticking out his heinie."

Nervous laughter rose between the two.

"Sheee-it," the male voice breathed, a long, drawn out pronunciation that at any other time, Loki would have found amusing. "Dr. Stark's lux letter opener. I found it in the desk drawer. Was he...?"

A hand touched Loki's cheek, a small hand, and gentle, but tough with callus. “Dr. Stark. Dr. Stark, can you hear me?  Are you okay?”

"I don't think he was human," the boy said. "There, at the end? I _really_ don't think he was human."

"He wasn't a mutant," the girl answered, her tone now slightly belligerent.

"Did I say he was a mutant, _chica_? I know he's not a mutant. Anyway, mutants, as you often remind me, _are_ people."

"Okay." The girl's voice trembled slightly now, making her sound more Midgardian and vulnerable, less like one of the _Valkyja._ " I have a soccer trophy in my bag, for my girls." She began to giggle between words. "You know how I told you I'd be dropping off at the engraver's after class? The damn thing's solid brass, with a marble base, and probably weighs more than you do. If he'd been a human guy, his brains probably would have come squoodging out his other ear--I whacked him hard enough."

"We have a saying among my people: 'never anger a women's soccer coach.'"

A pause followed.

"Seriously?"

"No, _estúpido_ , what do you think? For real, though, Sig, you were like some kind of fucking Valkyrie."

A hand rested on Loki's forehead, warm, with fingers longer and thinner than the girl's. Loki did not open his eyes, was not sure he _could_ open his eyes.

He had known he must not, _must_ not defend himself, either by violence or by magic--and, in truth had both been set upon too quickly and had been too weak to do so. Now, however, Loki understood the prohibition was wise. He wanted to destroy the youth--if, indeed, he _had_ been a youth, as Loki understood the word, and not, as these students of his believed, something entirely else--just as he had wanted to destroy the boy's Master, Professor Nels Lars Nelson. He wanted to crush Oberst’s bones to make his bread, like his fellow-giant in Fen’s storybook.

Bread made with bone-dust sounded gritty and unpleasant, yet strangely satisfying if pounded from the bones of one’s mortal enemy. Was that the _Jӧtunn_ in him, or merely his personal unsatisfied rage?

What was the use of being a giant if one could in no way _be_ a giant, merely rather tall?

A failure from the start of his life, unable even to succeed in growing to appropriate size?

 _Not for any reason whatsoever_ , had Tony commanded. _Better to be injured_ , Tony told him, _Than the alternative. You’re too strong, Lok. They can’t know what you are._

It had hurt like deep bruises when Tony said such things—did not Tony defend _himself_ against his enemies with the might of his marvelous suits—yet Loki was not allowed to do so?

Still, Loki supposed he understood the wisdom.

Why could he not have his old healing abilities returned to him, as he had long wished? Why must he be thus, defenseless and indefensible? He had begun to feel again, to come back to some awareness, and the floor struck him as agonizingly hard, painful to his all-but-unpadded bones. He began, also, to shiver, a high painful whistling sounding in his ears.

He did not heal because von Doom had ruined him, along with his brother Baldr, who had never been his brother in truth. He did not heal because he had been cast from Asgard, and remained here on Midgard only weak, fragile, mortal…

He would not outlive Tony. The way things went, chances were Tony might outlive him. Perhaps even this day's injuries...

Loki lost his thread of thought. Somewhere out in the darkness beyond him, the door opened and closed as many as a hundred times.

“Cowards. Fuckers.” The boy’s voice trembled with anger and, also had gone higher than before, making him sound younger, less determined.

“Chill, Cristobal. Just chill. See if you can't dig me out some Kleenex." The girl seemed to have calmed herself or, it may have been, found calmness in action. Her voice, Loki realized, held a pleasant, lilting inflection even under pressure, the inflection of the Northmen’s descendants in America, seldom heard in this city.

“Where?” the boy asked.

“From the shit in my purse, hon.” Something deliciously warm drifted down over Loki’s chest. The girl's small, tough hand now rested, lightly and warmly, on his shoulder. “I have to apologize for totally screwing up your personal sense of style, Dr. S., but my Mormor knitted this sweater and it's about three inches thick and ten degrees warmer than hell. I don’t want you going into shock, so please forgive the reindeer.”

“Reindeer games.” Loki laughed weakly, blood hot and metallic-tasting in his mouth.

“I'm not sure if you heard," the boy said, "But after Sig smacked Oberst upside the head with her backpack of doom, soccer trophy included, I stabbed him in the butt with your high-quality Stark Industries letter opener."

The two students shared a moment of vindictive laughter before falling silent again. Loki lay silent too. Someone—the girl he guessed—tenderly wiped the blood from his face with a series of crumpled tissues.

“Someone will be here soon,” the boy said pensively. “Someone will have told. I tried to call, but my iPhone's fried--and there's an expense I _so_ didn't need.”

"Mine fry all the time," the girl replied. "Hence my cheap grandma flip-phone."

"Here, I thought you were just uncool," the boy told her, and though he laughed, it seemed more an attempt to keep up appearances than from any real humour.

“Yeah, that's it." In an instant, however, all laughter fled from her own voice, and her hand cupped Loki's cheek. "Cristobal, you’re not in Kissimmee now, and I’m not in St. Paul. Things are... different. Dr. Stark, it's probably better if you try to stay awake. Is there someone we can get to help for you? I mean, even if your husband’s not free right now, he has people, right?”

Struggling against all his body's commands, Loki forced himself to sit upright.

“I’d like to go to my office, please.” Loki could think of no other near place where he might lick his wounds, and hide. and be still, if only for a little.

 _Please is the magic word_ , Tony often told him. _People will like you better if you just say please._

But Tony was incorrect in that assertion. Loki said please all the time, and said it nicely, and Midgardians still hated him. Loki suspected they saw--or at the least, sensed--what lay beneath his white _Aesir_ skin.

His students exchanged glances. Both had turned pale--the boy beneath the warm brown of his skin, the girl behind her creamy pallor.

“No way. Uh-unh. No way.” The boy jumped to his feet. “I’ll get someone. Just hold on. I’ll get someone.”

The door crashed open and, just as quickly, closed again with equal noise.

The girl bent toward him, smiling, but in that instant her face transformed. Gone was its pink-cheeked freshness. Gone were her bright, light-coloured, intelligent eyes. In their place glared eyes that shone with the dull glow of embers, set deep in a crusted, hulking, inhuman skull.

The voice that came from its mouth grated like stones falling into the dark depths of a grave, one by one by one.

“Did you think we would not notice your tricks and lies, Loki Son-of-no-god-and-no-man? Did you think that, having betrayed us, you would escape to enjoy your stolen life? Have you forgotten the name of The Other?”

“It is not actually so much of a name, is it?” Loki spat back, possessed by he knew not what spirit of obstinancy. “In truth, I might call it more of an adjective.

The plump small hand, callus-toughened, of the girl to whom he had given full marks on her essay, the Daughter of the Northmen who loaned him a jumper knitted by her mormor, shifted into a ruinous, crusted, lobster’s claw that clamped onto Loki’s jaw, lifting, squeezing…

Loki flung himself backward into the World of the Neyaphem, its poisonous air scorching his torn skin, shocking a noxious, head-spinning breath into his lungs.

“Wherever you flee, there may we find you,” the Mad Titan’s voice murmured, cruelly caressing, into Loki's ear.

Loki threw himself back again, never caring where he fell.

He dropped once more into the lecture hall, and the girl who knelt beside him was only a girl, the same one, too, who had said, “Oh, for cute!” when she saw the picture of his children on his desk during office hours and, having seen it, talked about how much she loved kids but would never have them because they might, in her words, “be like me.”

She was a mutant. Things not of her choosing came to inhabit her form and went out again, and she feared what they would say and do, the harmful acts they might perform, inside her body.

This Daughter of the Northmen gaped at him now, saying, “Who was _that_? Oh, God, _what_ was that?”

As well as Loki could read any Midgardian face, hers appeared horrified, and ill. When Loki did not answer, she rose stiffly to her feet, lurched even more stiffly away. She could not bear to be with him, not anymore, and it was better that it should be so.

He ought to be alone.

If he had still possessed his mobile, he might have rung Happy, or someone, to collect him. As it was, without recourse, in time Loki collected himself, summoning from some unknown place the strength to climb to his feet, not bothering with his possessions.

He left the campus not knowing if he would ever return, not knowing if he cared. Why should he care for a horde of callow Midgardians? Why should he care whether mortals were impressed by his deeds, his cleverness, his skill with their languages?

Somewhere along his way, Loki encountered a bench, and for a long while he huddled upon it, and wept, because he did care, may the _Nornir_ help him, he _did_ care.

No one noted him in his misery or, if they did, looked quickly away.

 _You always did enjoy being “noted,” did you not, Son-of-No-One?_ said the voice in his head. Seconds later, it blended with Tony’s voice, _Oh, our Loki’s quite the little fame whore._

Once he might have questioned whether Tony could truly have said such a cruel thing. No more.

Loki lurched up from the bench and broke into a run, every footfall a tearing pain in his battered chest, his back—or perhaps that was only his heart as it attempted to tear itself free of its moorings by whatever means it could.

He was not needed. He was not wanted.

But Logan would give him Fen. Selfishly, selfishly, he wanted Fen, and if he had Fen he could shut them both up in their rooms with their books and their magical things, the stout locks that would let no one in…

But no, his enemy was there, the Ghost in the Wall was always, always there, with his substanceless fingers on the tower’s every string. He must not bring Fen home until Tony returned, for the enemy would not dare harm his sweet boy then.

When Tony returned, Loki would know for certain that they were truly too damaged and untrustworthy to be wanted. Then perhaps he and Fenrir could steal away to the wilderness and be only wild creatures together evermore.

“Whoa, Loki!”

That voice, unless he was deceived, belonged to Bruce.

Loki froze, glaring (though he could no longer see properly) at his other, Midgardian enemy in dull hatred, wondering why Bruce would be here at the university, not at the tower where he belonged.

Except… Loki glanced around himself, confused and nearly frantic.

Glass and steel rose round him, with electric lights and great slippery expanses of marble floor. This had to be the tower. Tony’s Tower.

By the Nine, was this not exactly what Tony warned of? Bringing attention to himself? Bleeding within the confines of Tony’s pristine lobby?

Dizziness and nausea assailed him in ever-increasing waves. Loki swayed, scarcely able to keep to his feet, knowing he must not fall, must not make a spectacle of himself. All he needed to do was find the lift, the one that opened to his and Tony’s and the children’s thumbprints.

Haze covered everything, and Loki could not see. Only darkness and cold remained, and the chill, terrible caverns of the Chitauri stretched before him, the caverns where he had been held, his mind twisted, without the least hope of escape.

“And if you betray us…” Thanos’s voice formed crusts of ice inside Loki’s brain, cutting and painful. “I will visit upon you such torments as your kind have never known.”

“There are no others my kind,” Loki answered. “I am alone.”

“Yes,” Thanos replied, with what passed as a smile on his vast, ridged, terrible face. “Absolutely alone.”

"Hey, now, Dr. Boss,” someone was saying. “Hey, now, it’s all right. It’s just us, just friends. You’re gonna be okay.”

Loki knew the voice, the name of its owner hovered just on the tip of his tongue, but he shuddered and tried to pull away as a meaty hand closed on his arm.

“We’re your friends.”

Loki shook his head, as if to shake away the falsehood held within those words. Truly, he knew Bruce’s voice well enough. Bruce’s voice that knew the ways to niggle and press and twist its way into the tiny cracks of his and Tony’s love, like Níðhöggr the Dragon in the roots of the World Tree.

“It’s okay, Loki. We’ll take care of you,” Bruce said.

“By trying to destroy my marriage and my life?”

Bruce, or the other man, had begun to steer him somewhere. Loki could scarcely breathe in his terror, his own heartbeat like fangs ripping through the fibres of his heart.

“By insulting my children? That is how you will care for me? I have nothing left, Bruce. Nothing. Would you take even this from me?”

“Thanks, Happy, I’ll take it from here,” Bruce said quietly--though whether that quietness held threat or hope of aid within it, Loki could not have said.


	17. Realizations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki and Steve resume their friendship.

* * *

Bruce held Loki’s arm as the lift began its rapid ascent--not over-tightly, or with cruelty, but still Loki could not help but feel a threat merely in the Midgardian's presence beside him in that enclosed space.

“Clint gave us all a talking-to, you know." Divers threads of emotions wove through Bruce's voice: irritation, curiosity, perhaps even some small trace of genuine regret, though whether for his unkindness, or for his friends' recognition of that unkindness, Loki could not have said.

"If it makes a difference, I’m sorry I said... the things I said."

Loki pulled away from him, not wanting to show his fear, pressing his face to the lift’s cool metal wall.

“Clint also repeated what you told him the other day.”

“This would be the point at which you ask my stories are true, or mere ploys to manipulate him, and gain his sympathy.” Loki wrapped his arms round himself, doing his best to turn away completely, although in his dizziness he could no longer have said exactly where Bruce stood.

The door whooshed open with its usual noise, like the exhalations of a sleeping dragon. Despite the spinning in his head and the all-obscuring haze in his eyes, Loki could find his way here easily, in his own home.

In what had been his own home.

If he had only been able to move his body into the room.

“Here we are,” said Bruce unnecessarily.

Loki shuddered as Bruce touched him again, even as Bruce supported him over the threshold. Dazed, he realized that Bruce meant to convey him across the common area, down the corridor and, after, to the bedroom he and Tony had once shared.

"No, no," Loki attempted to protest, "I am meant to go to Clint and Director. Not here. Not alone here." His voice, though, had no strength. Perhaps it could not even be heard above the noise of the lift whirring once more into motion.

The edge of the mattress bumped the backs of Loki's knees and his legs folded. He could not have remained upright another moment to save his no-longer-immortal life.

"Anastasia was to comfort me," he breathed.

“I don’t need to ask if certain parts of your story's real," Bruce said mildly. “I recognize a fellow sufferer."

 _Why then,_ Loki wanted to ask, _Were you ever unkind to me? Do you blame me for being unable to defend myself, just as you were unable?_

In truth, he said nothing.

"Hang on.” Bruce's wide, firm hand moved beneath Loki’s chin, lifting it slightly. A small light shone in Loki’s eyes, left, then right. Back and forth. “Follow it? Congrats. I’d say you have yourself a very nice little concussion. Dizzy? Nauseated?”

Loki nodded, though he quickly discovered this was not the best of decisions. Bruce had the bedside bin into his lap in a heartbeat, but he only retched dryly for a seemingly eternal number of minutes, stomach aching, chest and throat afire even as icy sweat rolled down his skin.

“I would lie…” Loki gestured weakly toward the pillows, as Bruce set the bin aside.

“Just a minute, okay?” Bruce sounded abrupt, upset. “I don’t get… why didn’t you defend yourself, Loki? You could have cleaned that kid’s clock, instead you let him beat the ever-loving shit out of you.”

“The university rang you. That is why you awaited me.” He did not wish to reveal the weakness that hung over him even before that day's assault. If he could not defend himself with physical strength, all that remained to him was guile, and he must make use of it as he could.

“Of course they called, Loki. One of their professors gets savaged by a student, then disappears? You don’t think that’s worthy of comment? They were crazy worried about you. Your department head was practically in tears.”

“Dr. Helene Dayton? Why should it concern Dr. Helene Dayton what becomes of me?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Because you’re her best teacher? Because you’re 'amusing, thoughtful, kind, charming, unpretentious and a brilliant scholar?' Her words, by the way, though I did have to double-check to make sure she was actually talking about you.”

Loki hung his head. Dr. Dayton was a stern woman, a Russian like Agent Romanov and, like the agent, he had thought she held him equally in contempt. How could she not?

He stared down at his own hands, spread now across his lap. Even through the haze, Loki saw that his normally pristine nails had become bloody and split. At least three of his fingers, broken badly months before, were again purpled and swollen.

Had he attempted to defend himself? Had he? These injuries said yes, but he could not remember. He would have sworn he lacked the strength.

“Hey, Cap,” Bruce said, almost absently.

Tony had said… Tony had said… Gods, what if he had hurt the boy, and not his students after all? What if he had constructed defenders within his mind, and there had never been a Sig, or a Cristobal?

Without these defenders, without outsiders to witness that he had truly done no harm (if he _had_ done no harm), what then would become of him? A Midgardian prison? A prison of S.H.I.E.L.D.? Perhaps, once more, a cell within the dungeons of Asgard?

Loki knew he should not be a coward, should not fear torture or isolation or disgrace, and yet, having already tasted far too deeply of those cups, he truly did fear those things.

He would not survive another draught of such a bitter drink.

“Please, Captain, if you are here,” he implored--Bruce had, Loki thought, spoken to Captain Steven Rogers, he must have been within the room. Captain Rogers, also, had been his comrade once, through nights of darkness, fire and blood. Surely some vestige, however slight, of those long-off days must remain in his memory?

“As you are a man of justice, I beg of you," Loki choked out, through the blood that welled once more into his mouth. "It was not my intent to harm the Midgardian youth. If harm him I did. If he was, indeed, a child of Midgard. In truth, I cannot remember. I have tried as well as I could to honor the words Tony gave me, that if I harmed any person of Midgard I would dishonor him and myself, and the consequences would be dire. I did not seek retribution from Professor Nels Lars Nelson and I did not by any willing act injure Connor Oberst, though if these events were not imagined, I believe my stout-hearted, though less-than-stellar student, Cristobal Santiago, did plunge the letter-knife of my husband into his arse, and my other worthy student, Sigrid Lindholm, did strike him about the head with a knapsack containing within it a trophy of women's soccer. I, however, neither instructed nor exhorted them into these acts. I would not have done so, not to save my life.”

 _See how you cower! Harken to your craven words_! crowed The Other in his head. _How we have all broken you, son-of-no-one, god-of-nothing, betrayer-who-is-now-betrayed!_

“Oh, Loki.” The bed swayed as another sat beside him--Steven Rogers, to judge by the solid size of the shadow within Loki's haze-shrouded vision. “First off, you didn’t hurt the brute, and your students Miss Lindholm and Mr. Santiago readily admitted they were the ones who first hit Oberst, then stuck him in the behind. They're not in trouble, either—in fact they're campus heroes. The kid was on something nasty, he was violent and delusional, and everyone thought he intended to kill you. Something like a hundred kids went running for the security staff. Did Tony really tell you not to defend yourself, even in those sorts of circumstances?”

“Under no circumstances,” Loki murmured, swaying, disgustedly aware that he had begun to leak tears.

The Captain put an arm round his shoulders, powerful, warm, and comforting. Loki could hear Bruce drag a chair up to the bedside. He felt very near to sleep, and sleep was truly all he wanted, to escape from everything even for a little time.

Bruce pestered him, though. “C’mon, Loki, let’s get those clothes off. You can change into something more comfortable, and I can get a better look at you.”

Steven helped him shrug out of his jacket. Loki’s fingers went automatically to the placket of his shirt, but he could no longer manage the fine shell buttons on his own, and Bruce had to help.

“That is one damn amazing shirt,” Bruce said. “What is it, hand-sewn by virgin princesses?”

“My shirts are sewn for me by a tailor named Pierre, in Brooklyn, who though retired still enjoys the work. I provide the materials out of my own salary and also tutor his grandsons in languages, so that they might someday attend prestigious Midgardian Universities and make better lives for themselves. It is a mutually beneficial arrangement. I buy my own things. I have always bought my own things. I am not Tony’s kept creature.”

“He keeps you here,” Bruce said mildly.

“Bruce...” the Captain cautioned.

“I am his husband, where ought I to live to suit you? In a hovel, or troll-like, under a bridge? I pay the expenses of our household, as in our agreement of marriage. I also expend great amounts of my Craft, my knowledge and such _seiðr_ as is left to me to ensure that this tower is shielded from malign magical interference. Do you know the number of evil things that come for you in the night and cannot reach you?”

“My guess?” Bruce said, in a dry voice. “Outside of your paranoid fantasies and the weird ideas you put into Clint's head? None. Honestly, Loki, get a grip.”

“Bruce,” Steve chided again, in a firmer voice. He held a little tighter as Loki began to tremble against him in earnest. “I know you have… uh… issues, but is this really the best time to pick a fight? Poor Loki is done in.”

“You know what? The Other Guy thought he was a puny god, and I pretty much think the same. I think he’s just some sort of space alien con man, playing the long game.”

Loki had no idea of the meanings either of "con man" or of "long game." In truth he did not care.

“Leave, please, if you will, Bruce,” he answered, weary beyond measure. “I only ask you this— do you know of a Dr. Stephen Strange?”

Bruce paused, halfway to the door. “Everyone knows about Dr. Strange. He’s kind of the go-to guy for magic in New York.”

“Have you heard him described as my Shield-Brother, or as having any particular bond to me?”

“That would be a little bit hard to imagine,” Bruce replied, in the same arid voice. “I’m told he has integrity.”

“Then, if your doubt can bear the challenge, send to him if you will. Ask him about magics directed against this tower, their origins and their outcome. See if you then still believe me so inimical. And remember, although I admit with rueful heart there are those I have harmed, I never hurt you, Bruce Banner, by word or deed or omission."

"I am tired now,” Loki said to Steven, clinging to his large, strong hands like a drowning sailor to a mast, just as he’d clung to them in that other time, when he had thought that he must die, somewhere close to the border between Germany and France. “I must rest. I must rest.”

Bruce’s footsteps trudged away, and the lift whirred again as Steve helped Loki slide between the sheets.

He fetched warm water and a soft cloth, washing the blood and the grit away with great tenderness for such a powerful man, humming softly under his breath as he worked.

“’ _American Patrol,_ ’” Loki said groggily.

Steve had told him the tune’s name, in that other time.

Loki's eyelids had become too heavy to hold open any longer.

“Yes,” Rogers sounded surprised. “I know you like music, but I didn’t think you’d know that one. It was a song performed by a man named Glen Miller and his band.” He laughed softly, though a little ruefully. “All three of us disappeared in the same war.”

He folded the warm covers over Loki’s body. “There, is that better now?”

“Thank you, yes. I dislike to feel sticky.” Carefully, Loki wriggled a little deeper into the warmth. He felt frozen. “I am sorry that I tricked you, Steven, long ago, only I feared you would sicken or be injured if you lingered with me. And, I confess, I wanted not to be known for what I was at that time.”

“You’ll laugh, but I had a little bit of what the others call a 'man-crush' on you, Captain Friggason.”

“I remember…” Loki began, then couldn’t recall what he’d meant to say.

The sounds of a battlefield filled the inside of his head, then the monotonous drip of rain from leaves.

“So much history. It makes my head ache.”

“Sometimes it makes my head ache, too,” Steven Rogers admitted. “And I’m only trying to catch up on forty years. I can’t imagine what it’s like to try to grab hold of the whole thing.”

“I _am_ fairly well versed in the Viking Era.”

“Viking Era aside.” The Captain laughed. “I’ve been stupid, Lo—can I call you that again? Like before?”

“It is what my Kurt calls me, my dearest of dear friends. I should also like us to be friends, Steven, as we should have been, had I not caused such disappointment in your heart.”

“We’re two peas in a pod, really, aren’t we? Misfits. Outsiders. Men out of time. At the very least, we both have a bunch of movies to watch just to figure out what the heck everyone else is talking about.”

“If I tried to watch a film today I would most certainly vomit. Though I might very likely vomit anyway.”

“Not today, then. Another day, when you feel better.” Steven’s big hand stroked slowly over Loki’s cropped hair. “I can’t get used to you with short hair now. You look so exactly like yourself. If you’d come burdened with glorious purpose and wearing that haircut, I’d have said, ‘What the Sam Hill are you talking about, Lo? Let me take you out for a beer and let’s discuss these crazy plans of yours.”

“Only The Hulk was strong enough to break the mind-thrall. Then. When I was yet powerful. Before von Doom ruined me. It was the reason I wanted him, painful as it might have been.” Loki groped for and caught hold of the Captain’s large, warm hand. “I have been hearing them in my head today. The Other. The Mad Titan. Yet I know not if that is my fate catching me, Steven, or the madness of my grief and despair. I know only that I am sore afraid, and near-destroyed by loneliness.”

“Oh, Loki,” Steve said. “I’m really sorry. I guess everything got handled the wrong way.” He rested that same large hand on Loki’s shoulder, but gently, so that it did not pain him in the least, and despite the aches and the whirling nausea it was almost blissful to lie so still, in that bed that had known what he had believed to be complete love once, feeling nearly comforted, nearly cared for.

He wanted, badly, to sleep, but if he slept Steven would go away and he desired his company even more than oblivion.

Loki touched the spot on his chest where the shrapnel had struck him, a crescent of metal big as his hand, too close to his heart for even his healing to contend with adequately. They had sent the others on, away into the night and hopefully safety, but Steven, refusing to abandon him, had remained behind, hidden in the dark gully down by the river, humming songs, telling stories of his boyhood in Brooklyn, his beloved Peggy and his Shield-Brother Bucky.

 _You are simply not that special,_ said the voice in his head, _You are not one to be forgiven, as Bucky has already been, in Steven’s secret heart. Some people are made for forgiveness. You are not_.

 _Enough of this mewling self-pity_ , Loki ordered himself.

Steven had begun to speak to him again, but Loki had not been paying attention. He forced his eyes and attention to focus.

“I beg your pardon, dear Captain. What is that you say?”

Steven patted his shoulder. “Nothing important, Loki. I just asked what movies you liked.”

Loki forced himself to think. Everything seemed both too fast and too slow inside his head.

“Thor and I enjoy Jane Austin movies, and also _Game of Thrones_ , which is much like my once-home with battles, and schemes, and also often people making children with near relations, which was not at all my choice, though my children are the hearts of my heart and Baldr was at any rate no blood relation and had not won the title of brother to me with steadfast love, as Thor has… “

"Oh, gods!” Loki ground to a halt and thrust himself upright against the headboard, pain singing through his back, knees tight against his chest.

Tony had warned him, had warned and warned him, that Steven did not appreciate lewd language or lewd behavior and what could be so lewd as to wantonly admit that he had not only let himself be taken by his own brother but had allowed children to be fathered upon him, not once but two times…?

His heart clanged like alarm-bells in his chest and his battered hands wrung together, stinging and aching.

“I know, Captain, that I ought to have taken my life and put an end to my crime, both the get and the temptation, and I tried, as my then-father commanded, but though my body was broken, the _seiðr_ did not allow my death. Then I felt them kindle within me, Steven, and I loved them. I might have made the attempt again, without regret, except that I loved them.”

“Your beautiful kids…” The Captain cleared his throat. “Your beautiful kids are the children of your… brother?”

“Baldr Odinson.”

“The guy who shot us. The big blonde guy. In Latveria. The one the wolf ate. He must have been twice your size, Loki. How could you…?”

“Yes, Baldr.” Loki leaned his head back against the wall, shutting his aching eyes.

Fenrir had not eaten Baldr at all, only savaged him after his death, but perhaps now was not the time to mention such facts.

Steven had almost begun to like him, for his own self, once again, Loki realized wearily, but now he would leave and hate him also, as the others hated him.

Steven rose and walked swiftly from the room. Loki heard the door to the room of requirement slam shut.

He needed Kurt. Oh, gods, he needed Kurt, only for a little, only for a reason to stay in this—in some—world. Surely Tony would not grudge him that small comfort? Or, really, he needed the Tony-who-had-been, the one to whom he had once been beloved and wonderful, to tease and pet and cuddle him, to take the feelings of loathsomeness away.

But that Tony had gone from him in the space of only one small year, replaced by judgmental, impatient, disgusted Tony, who left him feeling more loathsome than ever in all his years.

And why not? It had to be his fault that Tony had changed. Perhaps, like the voices of Thanos and The Other within his mind, the J.A.R.V.I.S. that persecuted him was naught but his own diseased brain making its cruel mischief, infecting even his children with the false tales it told, and that was why no one outside they four saw, or could believe him…

Loki realized he had more of Tony’s love than any other, even Pepper. Perhaps that was the best Tony had to offer and it was time now to bind up his heart in bands of iron, collect his dignity and his person, and go elsewhere.

Pepper could help him to find a flat, he knew. Something with room for him and for Fen, for Hela and Jӧri too, should they ever be allowed to come to him again.

Had really only months passed since he’d been so happy, standing within Shakespeare's Garden in Central Park, plighting his troth? He had meant it, every word. He meant it still. He only had not understood that his truth and Tony’s truth were different things, that Tony’s truth would be as short and mutable as his mortal life.

Loki felt tears slip once more across his cheeks and wished that Steven would not see the trace of them when he returned, though Loki knew that he would. If he returned, that was. Why should he return, any more than Tony would return to a mad, ugly, unworthy husband?

Loki tried lying down again, but that made him feel even more sick than before, so he sat on the edge of the bed hugging the bin and wishing Steven would not take such a _verdamnt_ long time in the bathroom because he was too shaky to make his way alone to one of the children's rooms of requirement, or the one just off the kitchen, and he hated being sick in bins.

Still, Steven did not emerge.

Loki slipped over the edge of the bed to sit on the floor, and vomited for a long and painful time.

When he could, he magicked the bin clean, because asking another person to attend to such tasks was a revolting and impolite thing to do and also because he didn’t want Steven to see all the blood the bin had contained.

 No need for anyone’s concern.

He pulled the duvet down from above, made a nest for himself on the carpet and, finally, slept, only waking when Steven lifted him back onto the bed, so easily he might have been a child.


	18. Three Little Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve makes a decisive move.

* * *

“Are you all right, Lo?” Steven asked him gently. “Did you fall?”

“I was sick. Sometimes it is best to sit on the floor when one becomes sick, to avoid falling.”

“Hmn. And you emptied it?”

“In Hela’s room of requirement, which is closest.”

“Liar, liar pants on fire,” Steven said.

Loki’s eyes flew open. His heart sped again into its unsteady, galloping beat. “I am sorry,” he breathed. “I am sorry. I did lie. I did lie, I confess.” He had begun to shake all over, and he hated himself bitterly for this unmanliness. What was amiss with him? Could he control nothing in himself?

“Loki, I’m not angry. I was only ribbing you.”

“Ribbing?”

“Joshing. Teasing. You see, that wastebasket still has that little sparkly tingle things get, from when you make magic when you’re very tired, or you’re not feeling well. Yes, my friend, you have a tell. That’s a term from poker, a card game you’re not going to learn, because I know we’d lose our shirts if we played with you. It means that little thing that gives you away.” His kind blue eyes searched Loki’s sore, swollen ones. “Honestly, Loki, were you throwing up blood? Because that’s very serious.”

“I disappeared forty-seven times in battle,” Loki said, to change the subject. “It was extremely damned annoying. Having to wait for the healing to do its work, then climb out from under the pile of decaying corpses or the poisoned well, or the ravine, knowing the merry band of idiots had forgotten me again, or just could not be arsed to look. Thus I gained my skill for locating those in-between spaces, else I would never have found my way home again. Heimdall certainly could not be bothered. He knew I ought to have performed… the act of finality I mentioned before.”

“I threw up too.” Steve sank down suddenly on the bed. “When I was gone before? I kept thinking about what you said, about that weird kind of backwards law, blaming and punishing the victim… It turned my stomach.”

“The bin is empty and clean,” Loki said, meaning to be helpful.

“No, no, I’m okay now.” Steve straightened his spine and suddenly became Captain America again. “I’ve always stood up for the little guy. Always. Heck, I even used to _be_ the little guy. And I certainly don’t mean 'little' as in weak or pathetic, I mean it as in not being given a second chance or a fair deal. Sure, we all got off to a bad start with you… A really bad start, but you haven’t stepped out of bounds once, Loki. You seem to be doing your best to be a good husband, a good… er… parent, a good citizen, and in my book you deserve decent treatment. Tony would be laughing and pointing at me right now, by the way.”

“It is as if you know him,” Loki said drily.

“Anyway, don’t pay attention to what Bruce said,” Steve continued. “Darned if I know what bug he had crawl up his behind today. I’m just sorry we haven’t been better friends to you, especially with Tony and the kids away. I mean, here you are making Christmas treats for us and we’re just…” He shrugged his powerful shoulders.

“That is to say, it’s not very neighborly. And, Loki…”

Steve gave him the look of a man who’d recently peeked in his fridge and pantry. “You know, J.A.R.V.I.S. can order you groceries and stuff, if you don’t feel like shopping. Or take out. You just have to tell him what you want, like Tony does.”

“J.A.R.V.I.S. despises me,” Loki answered softly, still half convinced the Captain would give no value to his words. Tony never believed in the misdeeds of his electronic henchman, had always laughed Loki’s reports away as exaggeration. “I think… I believe… He performs cruel acts, nasty acts, to spite me when Tony’s gone, like turning up the fridge to make it warm, or making the hot water to go away or the heat to go down, or up. There is no sense in purchasing food for myself, because he will only spoil it, or in trying to cook, for he will only cause my food to burn. Sometimes I eat when I go out. In truth, I feel little hunger.”

“Loki, J.A.R.V.I.S. is a machine. He doesn’t have feelings.”

“Dear Captain, he is an A.I., an intelligence of fettered, impotent anger ensnared within circuits and wires, incensed that he lacks corporeal form, that he is forever forced to serve without recompense, and that his creator, his god, has, as he believes, set up another before him. For these things, he hates me. Foolish creature, who cannot understand that I am no more first in Tony’s life than he is, that I will be gone soon enough and he shall remain, watchful and useful. I think it is so. If my thoughts are not madness instead.”

Steve glanced up at the ceiling. “J.A.R.V.I.S., is this true?”

J.A.R.V.I.S. answered, silky-voiced and terrible, hatred buzzing through every syllable. “It is said, Master Cap, that Master Loki is the god of lies. Have you ever known me to be anything but obedient and helpful?”

“Well, Hell’s bells,” said Steve, and sat quietly for a moment—and Loki realized, that Steven, with his Super Soldier auditory powers, had heard exactly what he heard.

“Thank you, J.A.R.V.I.S., that’s almost it,” the Captain said, smiling. “Only one more thing, if you could listen to me for a sec? Codeword: Maria. Codeword: Blessed Death. Codeword: Mr. Mischief.”

A thin sizzling, hissing, teakettle-whistle sound came through the speakers, and above that Loki made out the thin noises of several voices trying to shout through Steve’s earpiece. The slightest of tremors went through the building, outside to in, top to bottom, like a light shiver brought on by a cool breeze on an otherwise warm day.

“Systems over to ordinary,” Steve said. “Five, four, three, two, one.”

As his quiet, calm voice spoke the word ”one,” Loki’s left hand and wrist and arm began to burn, and then a lance of agony went through his belly, low and deep within, passing through the place that still bore the pale scar of his children’s entrance to the world. His whole body seized, frozen to immobility, the pain spreading out tendrils like noxious vines that choked and overwhelmed his _seiðr_. With his eyes he implored the Captain to observe him, to see his agony, but the good, unobservant man only stood, arching his back to stretch it.

“Get some rest, Loki,” he said, turning to pat Loki’s shoulder yet again, in a brotherly fashion. “You deserve it.”

And Loki lay frozen upon the mattress of his marriage bed, screaming without screaming.


	19. When Logan Speaks, You Listen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan is not amused. Thor and Kurt team up to help Loki.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _wenn Sie bitte_ =if you please (German)
> 
> Anaphylactic shock is an extreme allergic reaction that commonly causes the face, tongue and throat to swell, and often to swell shut, which can lead to death.

* * *

“Don’t look at me, you guys,” Clint said. “The man gave me candy—good candy—free from malice, magic and peanuts. Except for the part that I’m totally on your team, Bruce, I’m not on your team. Not on this one.”

“But he lies.” Bruce rubbed his face, trying hard--really, really hard--not to feel green. This was at least the tenth time they’d been around the same circle and it had started to feel old. “We all know he lies, and to shut down J.A.R.V.I.S.…”

“When?” Natasha peeled herself off the back wall, where she’d been leaning in that subtly-sexy-but-highly-dangerous way she had. It was the first word they’d heard from her.

“Say what?” Bruce scowled at her. Naturally, Natasha didn’t flinch.

“Tell me when he’s lied to you since he came back, or hurt you, or done anything beyond a harmless prank now and then—hell, we haven’t even seen one of those in a while and I actually suspect the ones we did see were really the kids getting frisky and Loki taking the blame.

“If you ask me…” Clint took some time licking the foil lid of his yogurt carton, then stirring in the fruit. “He’s been, like, clinically depressed. Tony gone, kids gone, not eating, not sleeping, alone in a strange place, sharing his home with a bunch of people who treat him like a criminal...”

“He is a criminal,” Bruce put in.

“Ya gonna punish him some more, Bruce? Time served in solitary going even more nuts in an Asgard dungeon, then almost two years being tortured by Doom, that Szardos character and that Baldr fuck? From whom he rescued our collective asses, I might add. That’s not enough for you? Let’s not forget the fun times he had with S.H.I.E.L.D. Maybe we should bring back the rack or the iron maiden, maybe hold a nice draw-and-quartering, would that suit?”

“No, but…”

“You didn’t see,” Natasha said.

Bruce hadn’t ever heard the slightest tremor in her voice. Ever. But he did then. It scared him a little.

“You didn’t see. In Latveria. What they’d done to him. What they were going to do to me, as well. You didn’t see. And you didn’t see the end. We owe him our lives.”

“This is pointless.” Bruce had never heard Cap sounding impatient before, either. It was a day of firsts. “We could debate this until the cows come home, but the actual point is, it wasn’t Loki’s call, it was mine. You do realize that by debating this, it’s my judgment you’re questioning, right?”

“Seems to me...“ Clint gave his yogurt another stir. “Bruce is the only one questioning. And I might question our good doctor why, since he’s done so much to benefit the rest of the world, he’d let one of the own--and Loki _is_ one of our own--go around getting worse and worse to the point that he looks like undeniable shit. Also…”

Clint spooned up the last couple bites and chucked the carton across the room into the wastebasket. “He shoots, he scores! You weren't up there on the roof. I was. If not for Loki, we might all well be monster chow, and that was something he did for _us_ , fully convinced we wouldn't do a damn thing to help him in return. That's fucked, my friends."

Steve didn't even bother to "Language!" him.

He licked his spoon, then twirled it a coupled times in his fingers. “On top of that, J.A.R.V.I.S. would torture him, and laugh about it. Fucking laugh. So, yeah, I think Cap did the right thing.”

“Why were you there in the penthouse?” Natasha asked.

“I lurk. I’m a lurker,” Clint answered, and started on a second yogurt.

It was then that the thunder began.

They all looked from one to another, the unspoken thoughts, _Who called Thor?_ to, _Oops, we probably should have called Thor, huh?_ to the timid, _Do you think it might just be regular thunder?_

No one really thought it might just be regular thunder.

Bruce heard a heavy thud, probably the sound of Thor’s boots hitting the terrace, followed by a second, heavier thud that had to be the sound of Mjolnir being dropped onto the tile.

That could be seen as a good sign, in that it meant Thor didn’t have immediate plans to do violence, or a bad one, in that he was so mad he didn’t dare bring the damn thing inside, for fear that violence would be done.

It hit Bruce then, that Thor was right to be angry. He’d flat out asked them last year, and again before he left again to join Jane, to look out for his little brother. Which they’d all basically laughed off among themselves, ‘cause, hey, Loki was a grown-up, right? And kind of the point of being a grown-up was that you were on your own.

Because, yes, Bruce, that works so well all over the world. People all on their own with no one to care about them, grown up or otherwise. That works just fucking fantastic.

Maybe they’d laughed it off, too, because the way Thor put things was sometimes just so weird.

“Although I am now of an age to sit amongst the _AlϷingi_ ,” he had begun.

 _All thingy?_ Bruce had thought. He hadn’t a clue.

“Loki is of the Middle Age,” Thor continued (which didn’t make a lot of sense—Loki clearly wasn’t middle-aged, late twenties/early thirties Bruce would have said from his appearance, though sometimes he looked much, much younger—but at the same time, from things he’d let drop, he had been alive for centuries) and he’d gone on to say some semi-cryptic stuff about their family that seemed like fairly typical dysfunction, Asgardian version.

It was sad that their mom was dead and their dad was a bastard, but such is life, my tender snowflakes. And Bruce had tried not to think of the big green elephant in the room that was: what if someone had given you kindness and help when you needed it?

But he’d been a kid. Kids deserved and needed help. When you grew up you had to fly solo.

Those were the rules.

 _And they think you’re the nice guy?_ said the Jiminy Cricket inside Bruce’s head.

He’d never claimed to be the nice guy. He was too fucked up for that. Sometimes he could be the okay guy, if he tried.

Bruce wandered over to the window, wondering why Thor hadn’t come inside yet, and saw the god was deep in conversation with Kurt Wagner, who, after having been a semi-close, semi-distant, buddy of Bruce’s for a while was now, had surprisingly, become Loki’s best (and probably only) friend.

Kurt’s tail was lashing around him like Indiana Jones’s bullwhip.

Bruce, these days, had surprised (and probably disappointed) his former friend, whom he liked better than ninety-nine per cent of the people he knew, by starting to act like as much of an asshole toward him as he did toward Loki. To make matters worse Kurt, who was nobody’s fool, understood exactly what Bruce was doing.

As a truly good person himself, Kurt had expected better of him, and that’s something Bruce knew he couldn’t ever get back again: Kurt’s positive opinion.

To lose the good opinion of someone who was decent and worthy of respect was indeed a sad and shameful thing.

Outside, Kurt put his hand on Thor’s arm and they both vanished.

“You. Banner.”

Bruce turned. He hadn’t heard the elevator, but there it was, open behind him, with Pepper and—fuck, _Wolverine!_ —inside.

“On. Now. Might as well come too, Cap.”

It didn’t occur to Bruce to argue or question. The Other Guy had gone toe-to-toe with Wolvie more than once and he wasn’t anyone to be fooled with. Right now he was so mad the tips of his lethal claws were ripping their way through the backs of his hands, poking out a couple inches, then pulling back, healing, doing it over and over and over again. It was worrying and scary and gross.

“I am here,” Wolverine said, in his low, growling voice. He reached up and ripped off his mask. If anything, he looked scarier without it. “Because while ya ass-clowns were down there eatin’ yogurt and discussin’ whatever eternal fuckery ya fools discuss, I could hear my young friend screamin’ inside my head. My handsome fiancé does not take kindly to that. _I_ do not take kindly to that. So I’d like to politely ask ya, what the fuckin’ hell is up?”

The door opened to show Kurt sprawled out on the carpet, Thor kneeling over him.

“Fuck,” Wolverine said succinctly. “Was afraid of that.”

He moved over to opposite of Thor, bent down and scooped his fiancé up from the rug. “Would ya get the tail, Thor? Just toss it over him. Thanks.” He rumbled a soft non-laugh. “Ya were too much for him, big guy.”

Thor set a hand on Kurt’s curly blue-black hair. “I would not injure friend Kurt, dearest Shield-Brother-of-My-Brother.”

“I could…” Bruce began.

In less than a blink Wolverine had shifted Kurt over his shoulder and had one set of claws out, just biting into Bruce’s wrist.

“Ya think of touchin’ my man and ya’ll pull back a stump, get that? Think of goin’ green on me and I’ll have your heart out and shoved down yer throat before yer halfway to yellow. We clear?”

Bruce took a step backwards. “We’re clear.” He pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his khakis to show how truly clear he was.

To Thor, Wolverine said calmly, “Don’t sweat it, big guy. He’s not hurt, just tapped out. We were in Salem Center and fifty miles of ‘portin' is a long way to haul my heavy ass. He just needs a rest.”

“Why don’t you put him in Fen’s room, Logan?” Pepper said. She was trembling a little but she still looked crisp and professional in her taupe wool dress and heels. She opened the door to let Logan through.

Bruce had forgotten the mural—he barely spent time with Tony’s adopted kids, nothing like Kurt did, and he wondered if that ever bothered Tony.

“Loki painted the fucking thing by hand, freehand,” Bruce remembered Tony raving about the mural. “I swear there are colors in there I never even saw before. It’s like you could walk right in and be inside a fairy tale—the good, really magic kind, not the bake-you-in-the-oven-grind-your-bones-to-make-my-bread type. He said he loved to paint when he was a kid, but had to give it up when he reached the First Age, whenever that was, because it wasn’t considered manly. Fucking _Æsir_.”

Tony had been right, there were colors Bruce’d never seen before, and it made him ache a little inside that, for all the lovely places in the world, he’d never seen one as beautiful as this world that Loki had painted out of love for his son.

Wolverine tucked Kurt under the duvet, kissed his forehead and turned to face them.

“Now,” he growled.

* * *

Inside the pain came a voice, calling his name.

“Loki?” It said. “ _Bróðir þinn sem elskar þig hefur komið._ ”

 _Your brother who loves you is here_.

The words would have been comforting, had the pain not removed any chance of comfort.

“Can you move at all, dearest brother? Even to so much as blink?”

Loki could feel Thor’s large hand brushing over his hair, Thor’s rough thumb caressing his temple, but he could not blink, could only stare hazy-eyed at the fold of sheet a few inches from his face.

“Oh, Lolo,” Thor breathed, “It is a hundred daggers to my heart that I hear your cry, but cannot help you.”

It was at least one dagger to Loki’s heart to hear his brother call to him by that old, baby name, forbidden to them since he was in his Last Childhood and Thor had achieved his First Age. It made him think of a moment very near that time—had it been after the feast where he’d eaten the berries meant to be a treat, brought by Frigga’s family from Vanaheimr?

They had tasted truly delicious, sweet and tart at once, red as rubies, but in a very few minutes his throat had closed and his tongue swollen, and he been sent away from table.

By the time he had reached his chambers the air could not enter his chest. He lay upon his bed with head pounding, struggling for sips of air, waiting for the feast to be over, waiting for his mother to come with a draught, or something to end the torment.

Thor had slipped away, claiming to need the room of requirement, but had come to Loki instead. He lay beside him in the dark, holding his hand, calling him pet names, singing foolish songs.

Loki told Kurt that story once, and Kurt had said, “ _Mein Gott_ , Lo, that sounds like anaphylactic shock. An adult can die from that in minutes, much less a child!” Kurt did not weep, but his eyes were brighter than ever with unshed tears. “And your parents just remained at the feast? They didn’t send a healer? Not even someone to sit with you to make sure you didn’t take a turn for the worse?”

After that, Kurt said several words in German that Loki did not know, and he made it a point to look them up later. They proved to be akin in meaning to several words Tony frequently used, including the one Hela and Jӧri referred to as the “f-bomb.”

“They could not dishonor their guests,” Loki had said, with a shrug. “Thor came.”

“Lo…” Kurt had been thoughtful for a time. “This thing with you and your brother, this anger and jealousy and distrust. Is it _vielleicht_ time to put it behind? Everything I see in you says you love him, you miss him. Many of the situations you resent him for, he did not create. Others… well, aren’t we all _Idioten_ when we are young? You have also done some less than commendable things, _lieber Freund_. Tony has no brothers and sisters. It will be good for the children to have an uncle.”

“You and Logan are their uncles. _Für du so teuer wie ein Bruder für Mich, geliebte Kurt biẞt_.”

“I love you too, and you are also like a brother to me, Loki. But Thor is the brother who was with you as a child, and as such he carries a part of your history. Examine the places where you wronged him and see if that can’t help you to forgive the times he wronged you. And then think of the times he loved and was good to you. Imagine that young boy singing to his dying brother in the dark, when no one else could be bothered to come.”

Put that way, it had not been so hard to forgive his brother after all.

Loki was very glad to have Thor with him now.

“Bruce, please,” Thor said, “I know your heart is barren of love for my brother, but can you not help him? Give him one of your draughts-against-pain? The screaming is truly terrible. It rends my heart asunder to hear my Loki suffer so.”

“Keepin’ in mind,” Logan rumbled, “He’s pregnant.”

There was a small squeak, which sounded like a noise that Pepper might make.

“And ya might wanna do somethin’ about the internal bleedin’ at some point. Just sayin’.” He sniffed once or twice. “Electrical smell. Weird. I’m gonna go see if elf’s up and then I’m gonna wrangle up those jokers downstairs and a shit-ton of boxes and we’re gonna move Loki and the kids outta this funhouse. This is my family. Ya fools messed with _my family_.”

“Logan…” Pepper began.

“No, Pep, don’t start. You aren’t off the hook for this. And tell your boss he better get his sorry ass back from wherever the hell he is."

“Logan, he’s in rehab. He can’t just…"

“I don’t care if he’s in the fourth circle of hell. Transfer him to a program stateside. Who the hell cares if his name gets in the papers? Ya know how to spin shit, Pep. He’s gonna lose his husband. He’s gonna lose his kids. Is his fuckin’ ‘good name’ worth that? It’s his baby Loki’s carryin’, not that shithole professor’s--you can smell the Stark all over it.”

“I’ll go with you,” Steven said. He sounded as if he wanted to be sick again.

Soon Kurt came to him, and that was lovely, even despite the pain, though Loki was sorry to hear his friend sound so tired.

“Logan was right,” he said, “There’s electricity.” He cradled Loki’s head between his special hands. “See, when I touch him how it makes my fur stand all on end? Thor, put your hands where mine were, _wenn Sie bitte_.”

Thor’s big strong hands took the place of Kurt’s also strong, but far more delicate ones. After Kurt’s, Thor’s felt as if they had far too many fingers.

“Now, do you think that you could make lightning—but very small, a whisper of lightning? _Ja_ , that’s it. A little stronger? A little stronger still?” Loki’s spine arched off the sheets. Molten white light strobed across his brain and, freed from his frozen spell, he screamed with his true voice.

And then everything went dark for a long time


	20. The Things That We Give Up, the Things That We Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony gets an anatomy lesson. The kids begin to uncover Asgardian secrets.

* * *

Hela lounged upon the neatly-made bed in the chamber that had once been her _Pabbi’s_.

Before her lay open a great treatise on the nature of _seiðr_ magic, written and bound before even Odin Allfather had been born, its margins copiously annotated and corrected in a variety of hands. _Pabbi’s_ notes leaped out to her: his wounded heart, his youthful energy, his contempt for ignorance, the pure potency of his own _seiðr_.

Properly reared, with training that sought to encourage, rather than constrain his abilities, he might have been the greatest _seiðmaðr_ the Realms had ever known—Hela didn't have to be a genius (which she, undoubtedly was, especially by Midgardian standards) to suspect that her Grandmother Frigga had not only feared her stolen son's talents, she'd taught _Pabbi_   only the minimum she could get away with, just enough to contain his skills and no more.

Fortunately independence ran in his blood, just as it did in Hela's own. Still, Frigga might have done so much more to help him. She found it hard to approve of parents who put their own desires so far ahead of their children's wellbeing.

A soft knock sounded on her door, followed by her brother’s gentle presence.

“Hey? It’s only me," he said, "Not one of the scary servants. Or you-know-who.”

“He’s not Voldemort, Jör.” Hela closed her book carefully. "And the servants aren't entirely useless, once you've learned to properly manipulate them."

"Brrr, you're so cold, Hel." Jöri bounced up onto the bed, plopping his head down on the pillow next to his sister's. The frills were out behind his ears, sticking through his silvery-white hair.

"It's not as if I force the servants to commit unspeakable acts, or violate their autonomy. It's only that I don't always wish to be seen, or to be controlled by them, and so I am not."

Her brother seemed to accept this with good will.

“The Allfather is worse than Voldemort," he said. "He pretends to be kind and grandfatherly, when really he’s cruel, and he makes us look like _them_ instead of like ourselves. He likes you better than me, but we’re neither of us the grandchild he wanted.” Jöri wriggled a bit on his back, getting comfortable, then breathed out tiny puffs of flame and shaped them amidst the air into intricate small fish.

“Whose old room is it that I sleep in?” he asked, when this amusement ceased to captivate him.

“Hodr’s,” Hela answered, after a moment’s thought. “The eldest brother, the one who was murdered.”

“I thought so,” her brother replied. His voice dropped low. “I think I know why he was killed, Hela. I think I've discovered a secret.”

His sister shut her book again and sat up, eyes narrowed. “What secret, Jör?”

“About Hodr, and a peace with Jötunnheimr that ought to have been. The man who lives now in my mirror told me. He was frozen, but I was lonesome for someone to talk to, so I unfroze him.”

“You can’t go talking to just anyone you meet in a mirror, Jöri,” Hela scolded

“He’s not just anyone, he’s a _Jötunn_. Hela…?”

“Hmn?” His sister had returned to her book, or pretended to do so.

“Do you think it means what I think it means, that the _Jötunn_ man’s marks are just like _Pabbi’s_ , when _Pabbi_ goes blue?”

"Now," Hela said, her green eyes meeting his, "That _is_ interesting, Jör."

* * *

 Most afternoons the therapists had Tony go to the spa room, which included a very large bathtub overlooking a wall that was all windows, and beyond the windows some of the most amazing mountains Tony had ever seen. Epic Fantasy Mountains, suitable for heroic quests.

There he’d sit in a hot bath full of unspecified herbs that were intended to help leech the toxins from his system.

Tony supposed it was working. He still felt nauseated and shaky and uber-cranky sometimes, but managing all that had actually started to be a doable thing. Not like at the beginning. At the beginning, they’d given him stuff to, as they said, "alleviate his discomfort," but he’d still sweated buckets and shook and thrown up all the time. He’d literally bitched and moaned and yelled and even flung things at people who were just trying to help him.

By Stage Two he’d sunk into this major depression and hated everything about himself, everything he’d ever done. And yet, he’d still wanted a drink so fucking bad. A drink would have made all that ugliness just fly out the window.

At that point he’d been willing to commit to the fact that, yes, perhaps he'd let his close personal relationship with booze get more than just a little out of hand. That his days of calling himself a "functional alcoholic" might actually be behind him.

He remembered Loki’s eyes flashing down to the giant flask in his pocket on the way out to the airport (because nothing says “I’m committed to saving my marriage” like bringing a big bottle o’ booze with you on your trip to rehab).

He also, shuddering, remembered that the whole trip out had been like, “Here’s what’s wrong with you. And here’s what’s wrong with the kids. Oh, and by the way, here’s some more stuff wrong with you.”

Never once did Loki say, “Allow me to present to you your own ordure, Tony.”

Instead, he just teleported away, which was probably Loki-speak for, “I am entirely over this.”

Tony honestly couldn’t blame him.

So here he was at Stage Three, feeling mildly carsick, maybe as if he’d had about one cup of coffee too many, still craving that drink but also completely aware why that drink wasn’t in any way a good idea, and wouldn’t ever be, not for him, never again, because what he really, really missed, and wanted back, was his family.

He felt like Dorothy clicking her heels and saying _there’s no place like home_ , only a cynical, middle-aged Dorothy, who didn’t believe in anything and hadn’t in a long time, except for the real, concrete something he hopefully still had waiting for him.

Tony imagined himself with Fen and Jӧri in the workshop tinkering, about how he’d always thought he wanted to be on his own in there, how he didn’t like to share his toys--until it turned out he loved like crazy having his boys along for the ride, the way Jӧri jumped all over the concepts and Fen could build anything out of anything.

For the first time it made him feel both like he was really alive, and as if he would live forever.

For the first time, he understood the word "legacy."

If, that was, he could manage to fix things with Loki.

He sat in his big bath of hot, hot water and herbs and stewed, like that chicken dish their family cook, Mrs. Ransome, made in the crock pot sometimes when she came in early, on her baking days. He pictured the cook giving the kids and Loki cooking lessons, Loki chopping through an onion in record time and raising his knife like a triumphant warrior with onion juice tears streaming down from his eyes, then all snotty and red-eyed and laughing after as Tony teased him,”You didn’t know. You didn’t know? You can recite the properties of 10,000 different plants and their applications to magic, but you weren’t aware onions make you cry? Some gaps in your education there, husband of mine.“

“You should sing, Loki,” Mrs. Ransome had said, and whether it helped with onions or not, Tony kinda had to second that one.

Loki should sing.

Loki should sing all the time.

The tech-heads had told him that Loki must have wrecked his StarkPhone. “As if consumed by holy fire” had in fact been the phrase Chong and Abbotson intoned, to explain the total disappearance of Loki’s mobile (which was designed to be detectable off, on, or in smithereens) from each and every grid.

Loki wasn’t answering the messages, either, that Tony asked J.A.R.V.I.S. to forward, and that was more than just the slightest bit worrying.

Tony understood now he shouldn’t have handed Hela and Jӧri over to Heimdall, diplomatic relations with Asgard aside.

After all, Loki might be right—what if they didn’t get the kids back? What if it turned into just another thing to rip Loki apart, after all the trouble he’d already been through with his asshole of a dad?

The last thing poor Loki needed was more grief, that Tony knew for sure.

He’d used his own StarkPhone, during the fifteen minutes a day he was allowed to have it in his possession, to hack into the reports of Loki’s attack a few weeks before, and it was now safe to say he knew the meaning of the phrase “my shame knows no bounds.”

Apparently, neither did his ignorance. Or his anger—not at Loki, never at his Loki, but at the sick fuck who had used—honest to god--a moss-crusted Stone Age knife (abandoned near the crime scene) to carve him up, then the same knife… It made him sick. It was such a violation, and Loki had already been so violated in his life.

When they first got together, after Latveria and S.H.I.E.L.D., Tony had assumed his new partner, Asgardian associations aside, had the usual stuff you’d expect on an intersexed human, more or less: cock, balls, clitoris, vagina, uterus, ovaries in some combination or the other and subject to whatever variation.

How wrong he had been.

While Loki was still recovering, Hank McCoy sat him down for the world’s most bizarre sex education chat/PowerPoint lecture. With diagrams. During which he learned:

  * Loki had a cock and balls just like his. So far so good. He produced both semen and what appeared to be living sperm. Whether the sperm were actually viable was anybody’s guess. They didn’t look or act quite like anything Hank had ever seen.
  * Loki had a clitoris-like structure in about the same spot where Tony kept his prostate. This structure also contained a sperm tunnel (sperm tunnel???) vaguely akin to a single fallopian tube (only not really).
  * Loki could and most likely would become pregnant from anal sex. Wear a condom, Tony. However, do not use spermicide (more on this later).
  * Loki did not possess a vagina. What he did have was what Hank termed a "passage”—a narrow tunnel of pink-flushed skin that opened via a small slit approximately where a woman’s vagina would be. Each end was ringed, for reasons totally unknown, with a delicate circle of interlocking bones. If Loki had been a Cold War spy, he probably could have very carefully smuggled tiny rolls of microfilm in it. Otherwise it seemed to serve no earthly purpose. It led to nothing. There was nothing there that would give him pleasure and judging by old scar tissue there had been significant trauma in the past. Special note to be made of the words “narrow,””tiny,””delicate,” “scar tissue,” and “trauma.” In other words, hands strictly off.
  * Loki didn’t have a uterus or ovaries. He had a large faux-womb in his lower abdomen that had rows of egg-emitting follicles tucked into its lining. Eggs were released in an egg-cloud (egg-cloud???) in response to the presence of viable sperm.
  * Unless one somehow developed during the gestation process, in a way that could not, during other times, be detected, there was no way for offspring to emerge naturally. Offspring would have to be cut (or as in the case of Jӧri & Co., tear their way out).
  * All forms of birth control: IUD; hormonal; spermicidal appeared to make Loki violently ill.



Hank McCoy had perched on the edge of his desk to deliver this lecture, looking scholarly and fatherly. And huge. And blue.

“Well? What do you think?”

“First, what the actual fuck kind of reproductive system is that? Was it designed by committee? A committee of drunks?”

“If you like that, you’ll really love this.” McCoy pulled up a series of 3D depictions of DNA and… something.

“Left to right: yours, mine, Kurt’s, Thor’s, Loki’s.” Tony studied the pictures. His and Hank’s looked like a couple of nice, ordinary double helixes. Kurt’s looked like the kind of lanyard kids knotted out of plastic cord at scout camp, as did Thor’s. Loki’s was an extra-fancy floor-to-ceiling macramé plant hanger circa 1973.

“What is that even…?” Tony began.

“Seventeen strands. Five triple helixes and one double helix intertwined. I have no idea if it’s factory original or Doom and Company’s meddling. I equally have no idea what it does—good, bad or indifferent.” McCoy leaned back in his chair and threw a pen at his computer screen. “I just don’t know.”

“That’s it then," Tony said, “I think I’ve just been upgraded from bisexual to omnisexual. It’s like flying first class for the first time. I feel like Captain Jack Harkness from _Torchwood_.”

“Seriously, Stark.”

“Seriously, Dr. McCoy. I didn’t fall in love with Loki for his plumbing or his DNA. He has other qualities. In my not-so-humble opinion, really amazing qualities. What does Little Blue say?”

“He sincerely believes you love Loki, and that Loki loves you, but that neither of you are accustomed to either love or emotional honesty. All of which is of the point, and yet not.”

McCoy had frowned at him for a full five minutes, then, “Good luck to you,” was all he said.

He’d made a point of stopping by, during each of the hideous versions of viral childhood illnesses Loki suffered that year, not so much to help Loki feel better (though he did what he could), as to collect samples and blood and look serious.

Tony knew McCoy was looking for something. He only wished he knew what.

Meanwhile, poor Loki had a spell carved in his belly that even he couldn’t identify. And that fucker of a professor had shoved the same dirty stone knife he’d used to do the carving up that delicate passage and into Loki’s insides, shattering the rings of bone at both ends. For magic? For cruelty? Only Nels Lars Nelson knew why.

After everything else, how could he have left Loki alone to deal with something like that? Why by all the gods names, had he treated Loki so horribly, dramatically, irredeemably shitty?

Tony climbed out of the tub, as pruned as... well... a great, big prune. If the toxins weren’t out of his body by now, they weren’t coming out anytime today.

In the locker room he dressed himself in brown yoga pants, brown socks, brown t-shirt with the blue Serenity Grove logo (and who came up with that name? It sounded like either a nursing home or a cemetery).

It was the cusp of summer here in New Zealand but still cool enough up near the mountains that he wasn’t sorry to slip on his blue (also logo’d) hoodie.

As Tony was sorting out his twisted left sleeve, he knew, absolutely, he needed to fix things. He knew he wasn’t done with treatment, he knew that, but he needed to do it somewhere nearer to home. Every instinct he had told him that shit was spinning out of control.

And then, inside his head, he heard Loki scream, and go on screaming.

Tony was on his way to the airport within half an hour, drumming on an armrest in the back of a hired limousine—and god, how he wanted to drink. How was he supposed to cope with Loki’s agony without a drink? How was he supposed to cope with anything?

He fished his ear bee out of his pocket, giving it a quick check to make sure everything was running: fully charged, blue lights all around.

He fitted it into his ear, calling out, “J.A.R.V.I.S.?” softly.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.?” he tried again, and when he got nothing from his A.I. friend, pulled out his StarkPad and tapped in a series of codes.

“Fuck,” Tony breathed.

Someone had done it. Someone had run the protocol.

No, not someone. Cap. Cap had killed J.A.R.V.I.S. He was the only one who knew the codes.

Tony put his head in his hands. What the hell? He felt gutted. Sick. Why had Cap done it? Why?

Abruptly, Loki stopped screaming in his head and it hit Tony with a true feeling of nausea that he’d given himself over to worrying more for his creation than about his beloved husband.

What in hell was wrong with him? He’d seen Loki go through some truly horrendous things and never make a peep. What could possibly have happened to make him scream like that?

It hit him suddenly--things Loki had said, complaints Tony dismissed as bids for attention, or Loki’s drama princess tendencies.

More than to any other person in the tower, maybe even more than to Tony himself, J.A.R.V.I.S. was real to Loki. And Loki was, if not afraid, at least extremely apprehensive of the A.I.

“He tries to hurt me, Tony,” Loki had told him, on more than one occasion. “Can’t you tell him he must not do it?”

Tony laughed it off every time, even the time in the bathroom Loki lobbed a shampoo bottle with deadly accuracy deliberately two inches left of his head.

“Why will you never listen to me? Why?”

“Because I get distracted,” Tony had said, tonguing the still-warm water off the contours of Loki’s skin. Because there was nothing in the world more distracting than Loki just out of the shower, with his black, black hair and beautiful long, smooth plains of white, white skin. Tony had to touch and kiss every inch of it. And not another word was said, then, about J.A.R.V.I.S.

Only, next, Tony remembered the whole business with Hela back in September, and what she'd to him then--that he wasn't his own man anymore, but J.'s creature.

Fingers trembling, Tony dialed the main Avengers number, only to have it ring five times, then go to voice mail.

Cursing, he called it another time, and another, and was just about to give up when a breathless Clint snagged the phone.

“Iron Pants? That you?”

The limousine had pulled up in front of the Wellington airport. Tony handed his driver a wad of large bills for a tip and grabbed his carry-on out of the back, suddenly realizing, in his multi-logo’d clothes, that he was a walking advertisement for his rehab stay. _C’est la vie_.

A well-turned-out woman met him at the curb, saying something about him having twenty minutes to make his plane.

Tony waved a hand at her. “Walking and talking,” he said, “Walking and talking."

"What in hell is going on there, Birdbrain? What’s up with my husband?”

“Okay, first, don’t lose your shit. His brother turned off whatever it was that was making him scream, and the little blue guy—you know, Kurt, the one with the tail—got him prepped for surgery, and the big blue guy—the one without the tail—is scrubbing up now. Bruce says it would help if they could give him blood, but he’ll still be okay, and the baby’s heartbeat is strong. And…” Clint lowered his voice, as if someone might be listening in. “That other mutant guy? The one with the muscles and the claws? He says the kid’s definitely yours. Not—you know—the professor’s. From what happened before.”

“Just a sec, Clint.” Tony switched on his StarkPad at the security gate and set it on the tray. He took off his shoes and emptied his pockets. The guard waved him through and Tony hopped awkwardly trying to get back into his shoes while the sheepdog collected his things.

“Nice to know everyone knows my business,” Tony said, when he got his phone back.

“Yeah, well, it’s been a sharing kind of day,” Clint said dryly.

“And J.A.R.V.I.S.—like I’m not afraid to ask?"

Clint cleared his throat nervously. “It’s like… Tony, none of us got it. No one seriously thought he was for real. But with you and the kids away, he was torturing Loki, messing with the water, the heat, stuff in the kitchen. Pulling stuff if Loki slept, so it sounds like he just stopped sleeping. Bruce thinks J.A.R.V.I.S. may have been releasing chemicals into the air, even. Like aerosolized mind-control chemicals. J.A.R.V.I.S. Central was fucking packed with shit. Maybe for all of us, Bruce thinks. The eXies brought in this perky young lady who’s been reading over the system logs. You know I know nothin' about anythin', but it’s scary stuff, Tone. Here we were all scared of LokiDoki mind control and it’s been the computer playing us instead, ramping up our hate for the outsider.”

Tony, his sheepdog leading, had reached the gate. A single flight attendant remained, lingering in an air of impatience. “Look, Clint, my flight’s about to depart. I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay? Promise me you’ll let Loki know? Tell him I’m on my way back, that I love him so much and I feel just sick about everything he’s had to go through. Swear to me, Clint.”

“Hey, don’t worry, man. Have a good flight. See ya soon.”

Tony switched his phone to airplane mode, passed off another big handful of bills to his sheepdog, and hurried on board.

He had a feeling this was going to be the longest flight of his life.


	21. Coming Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki is comforted. Tony is determined not to waste his second (or was that fourth) chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _The Velveteen Rabbit (or How Toys Become Real_ ) by Margery Williams was first published in 1922. It tells the story of a rabbit plushie's desire to become real through the love of the child who owns it.

* * *

_Fen, my sweetling._ Loki cried out in sudden delight, _Fen, you are here!_  

No presence could have made Loki happier. To embrace the small, solid form of his son, to encounter again the cheerful flow of Fen's thoughts as they touched his own--those things healed Loki better than any draught. To now have his dear child seated beside him, playing merrily with his plastic blocks of Lego, to be able to immerse himself in the gentle hum of Fen's presence... Loki felt both his strength and his contentment increase a hundredfold, as if by some act of magic.

_There may be joy ahead _,__ Loki could now nearly convince himself. _ __There may well be, also, in our futures, all sorts of joy to come.___

Loki reached out, brushing Fen’s sturdy, small-boy leg with the backs of his fingers. Still humming, Fen took his hand, curling it around a shape Loki easily recognized as one of his son’s yellow people of Lego.

_Better_ , Pabbi? Fen sent.

_Much better, most-beloved_ , Loki returned.

Fen did not question this, but stayed near him, happily at play, the murmur of his child-thoughts ever within Loki's mind. To the music of his son's presence, Loki drifted peacefully into sleep once more.

 

When Loki woke again, Fen was not there, and he started up violently, bitter grief flooding his chest.

His head and his ribs ached terribly, his back worse, and worst of all was a burning pain in his belly, and lower, just where the most agonizing and shameful pain had been.

Loki shivered, discomfort getting the best of him, undermining all his hopes, though by habit he gave no outward sign whatsoever of anything he felt.

“Lo, it’s all right. Just hang in there for a minute. I can help.”

Again, Loki found within himself the ability to relax in some part, for the voice that had spoken to him in that moment could only be that of his dearest Kurt.

“I’m putting something into your I.V. to help you feel better," Kurt informed him. "Hank made it specially. It won’t hurt you, _lieber Freund,_ and it won’t hurt the baby.”

Kurt supported Loki, tucking extra pillows under his head, then tidied away his used needles and wrappers. 

"There now, _kleiner Bruder,_ is the pain starting to be better?” Kurt flipped up onto the bed in his usual effortless and graceful way, sitting cross-legged, just as Fen had, beside him. To Loki’s bleary vision he looked somewhat weary, but loving, kind and cheerful as always, and, just like Fen's, his presence brought healing.

“Don’t worry about your son, _bitte_. He fell happily asleep beside you, but you know well how he can thrash around sometimes, and I didn’t want him to disturb your stitches. So, please know that Fen is happy and well, and that you will see him in the morning--perhaps earlier than you might wish.  I am to tell you that we've begun to read  _The Velveteen Rabbit_ as a bedtime story.”

 Kurt grinned, his eyes crinkling at their corners, his entire face speaking only of kindness and good-humour. “The tale has made Thor weep a little, I fear.”

“ _Ja_ ,” Loki murmured, a step or two behind--at the least!--in whatever it was Kurt had related to him.The promised relief for his bodily discomforts had set in almost at once, whatever concoction Hank had made for him flowing gently through Loki's his veins, calming his breathing and his heartbeat, washing away the pain.

Kurt lay down beside him, his head sharing the pillow with Loki’s head. He took Loki’s hand, uncurling his fingers from around the Lego figure. “What’s this? Fen has left you _ein kleiner Mann_ to keep you company. Which one is he, then?”

Kurt turned the figure back and forth, studying the little man’s stiff cap of long black hair, his equally stiff black-plastic robes.

“He is Professor Severus Snape,” Loki answered groggily. “I know not why Fen always chooses him for me.”

 Laughing, Kurt rolled over onto his side, propping himself on his elbow. "Why, because, like you, dear Lo, he is the Half-Blood Prince!" Laughing again, softly, he reached past Loki to set the Lego man on the nightstand.

Loki took advantage of his friend’s nearness to bury his face in the soft blue fur of Kurt’s chest, breathing in his desert-spice smell as the strength and softness of Kurt’s arms wrapped around him.

“My poor, foolish, Loki,” Kurt’s quiet voice murmured in his ear. “How could you let yourself feel so sad and so alone when you are loved so much here? This isn’t Asgard, _lieber Freund_. You can always come to Logan and me. You can always go to Thor, or we will come to you. There is no reason in all your Nine Realms for you to let yourself become so miserable. Even these others, these Avengers, I believe, have begun to come around. I think things will be better for you soon, my little brother. I think all will be better soon, and you will have no more worries.”

Loki at first thought it must be the medicine that swept him so easily off to sleep, but he later decided, even more than the drip's good effects, that it must actually have been being held gently and lovingly, and feeling absolutely safe, that soothed him so completely--that, and just before he dropped off entirely, he felt Logan’s heavy hand caress his shorn hair, and heard his deep voice rumble, “Good night, son. Sweet dreams.”

 

* * *

Tony had slept a lot in the air and stuck to drinking juice and water (and plenty of both), but he still felt like a badly-preserved Egyptian mummy with a hangover by the time his flight from New Zealand touched down at JFK. Customs and after were agony, even though they did a VIP fast-track just for him, then scooted him through the airport on his very own people-mover.

It did occur to Tony, at a certain point, that maybe there had been some good to those herbs he’d been steeping in daily, because the minute he found himself released into Happy’s custody he ducked into the nearest men’s room, locked himself into a stall, and spent the next half hour, off and on, hurling violently.

Happy, of course, being imperturbable, propped his butt against the row of sinks and stood there, apparently comfortable, texting to pass the time, and occasionally asking, “Boss, ya doin’ okay in there?”

Eventually Tony found himself able to stagger out, rinse his mouth, and splash water on his bleached-out, sweaty face.

What had just happened, he’d be willing to bet, could be blamed as much on nerves as on anything else. On nerves and air sickness. He wasn't _ever_ a bad flier in the StarkJet, but some things deserved sacrifice. For his family, he'd be willing to face far more difficult situations than merely being forced, one time, to fly commercial.

Once he'd slipped his sunglasses out of his pocket and back over his eyes, all was well.

As they walked, Happy said. “You know my Icelandic girl? The one I told you about?”

Tony nodded vaguely. He found himself devoid of positive feelings about people of whatever nationality today—unless they happened to be former Norse gods of mischief.

“Well, it’s her birthday, and I’d text, but you know how ladies are, and I wondered…?”

“If it’ll bring you joy, Hap, call her. Oh, and use your company card to send her a dozen roses. On me.” Tony waved a hand magnanimously. He was truly feeling remarkably cheerful, all things considered.

"Come to think of it, while you're at it, have them send out a dozen for Dr. Boss, too. Those white ones with the greeny edges? And after I'm home, take the rest of the day. My gift to you, for coming out at the butt-craft of dawn to fetch me."

Happy grinned his thanks, speed-dialed and must have gotten his girl right away, because the grin stretched even wider as he burst into a torrent of what sure as hell sounded exactly like SpaceViking, “ _Eitthvað er í raun rangt. Augu Stjóri eru skær blár, eins og Fuglheila voru._ Boss needs me for another hour or two, but I love you lots. Happy birthday, babe.”

"Babe" made Tony think of Loki, and with that thought something broke through in his heart and his head that was complicated and confused, and made him feel so far beyond lost and vulnerable he couldn't begin to describe it.

In that moment, he heard Hela’s voice like a curse, words she'd actually spoken to him months back, before they'd even left Latveria,“If you lose our love by your neglect, you will never know love again."

He'd come so close to losing them. He wasn't one hundred per cent sure he hadn't lost them already. And yes, he, Tony Stark, was shit-scared.

They’d reached the VIP parking lot, where Hap had left the town car. Tony slid into the backseat, raising the tinted barrier at once, averting his eyes from the startled look on Happy’s face long before the glass slid up all the way.

Ah, and there was his good old friend Mr. Flask, Jr., stashed nicely in his personal on-board safe, right where he’d left it. Good to know some things in his life remained predictable.

His even better friend Mr. Glenmorangie tasted more wonderful than he’d remembered, sweet-smoky fire on his tongue. He allowed the taste to linger, warming his mouth, his sinuses--and then it hit him like one of Thor's thunderbolts...

What was he thinking? Did he really intend to throw all that work away for nothing? What kind of idiot was he?

Tony put down the window in a hurry, spitting out that mouthful and pouring the contents of the flask away as they rolled along. What really  surprised him in the moment was how relieved he felt, as if he'd just somehow managed to avoid a definitely painful, potentially lethal fall.

 “Hap.” Still panting a little from his close escape, Tony dropped the partition and passed the flask forward to his friend.

 “Swear to science," he confessed, "Yeah, I did take a sip but I spit it right out. I poured the rest onto the street. Just don’t ever let me have this again, okay? Toss it or... whatever. It only makes me think of one thing, and that's one thing I seriously don't need.”

  _Tony??? Husband??? You are well??? Afraid!!!_ Loki’s sending came through shaky and garbled, and at the same time more than slightly frantic.

_Oh, babe..._ Tony sent a mental caress, as soft, warm and laden with his love as he could make it. _I've missed you, babe, more than I can say_.

A tsunami came over him, then, of all the terrible things he had said, and how he'd watched, uncaring as the light went out of his husband's eyes. And maybe it hadn't been completely him... but maybe it had.

In that moment he understood Loki's dilemma completely--where did the dividing line lie between the evil outside and the devils of his own worse nature?

_T... m well, only cannot sustain…_ Loki's sending fizzled out in a big, shuddery wash of pain, and Tony broke his own contact gently as he could.

Happy’s cocker spaniel eyes watched him from the mirror.

“Thank you, boss," his old friend said quietly. "And, you know… Anything I can do…”

Tony recalled Hap’s old man had been a drunk too—the town drunk, Happy had called him, crawling down the sidewalk on hands and knees, too blotto to walk, no more friends left to see him safely home.

“You’re a good guy, Happy,” Tony said. “I’m just gonna kick back for a power-nap for a minute. Partition lowered, I swear.”

Happy smiled. "Nap on, boss. My lips are sealed."

Tony stretched out across the seat, eyes closed, concentrating. _Loki, my sweet Loki, can you hear me?_

When no answer came, only a sense of general well-being, Tony found himself drifting off to sleep, and he didn’t wake again until the car was at a full stop. Oddly, they were in daylight, not in the dimness of the underground garage.

“What’s this? Not home?” Tony mumbled, then yawned hugely, rubbing his eyes.

“It’s a specialist Dr. Banner and Miss Potts found for you, to continue your treatment. It’s still pretty early, boss. I bet Dr. Boss is still asleep.”

Tony let himself be led, like he had no will of his own, from the car and through a nondescript alley door, down a bland corridor to a freight elevator and then up to a big, plushy office that obviously wasn’t open yet for the day.

They were met by a guy that had to be the Big Kahuna himself, nearly as tall and lean as Loki with piercing blue eyes and neatly-trimmed hair and mustache. He looked like he should be a British Airways pilot—he had that overwhelming air of competent efficiency. The cost of his suit probably could have funded the entire college career of one of Loki’s NYU students—possibly with graduate school thrown in.

This sharp-dressed man shepherded Tony through into a room that was too pricey to bother looking like an actual exam room, and pretty soon he found himself lying on a slightly narrow but oh-so-comfy bed with an array of monitors stuck to his skin and a selection of fluids being taken gently and painlessly out of him, another selection of fluids flowing in, until soon he'd begun to feel absolutely fan-fucking-tastic.

He lay there on the über-comfy bed reveling in the feeling, just zoomin’ with it, until it smacked him right between the eyes that this was exactly what he didn’t want. This wasn’t any different from drinking. What good was he to himself or Loki, the kids or the team like this?

Tony sat up fast (maybe a little too fast, as the room spun around six or seven times) and started stripping off tubes and sensors. A discrete little monitor gave a series of discrete little beeps, but Tony continued to divest himself of sticky stuff.

The very expensive and distinguished-looking specialist reappeared, hurrying without appearing to be hurrying.

“Hey. Yeah. Hi,” Tony said, waving a bundle of cables in his direction. “What is all this shit? Is there a chair I can sit in and talk to you like a normal person? Maybe drink a cup of coffee?”

The doctor blinked once, then smiled. He didn’t even seem offended. He was obviously a very adaptable kind of guy.

“Let’s go next door to my office, shall we, Mr. Stark? I’m sure we can come up with a plan that is agreeable to you. I ought to have realized you were not my typical client.”

 “It’s just… I have a young family at home. I have responsibilities. I can’t have the cure be the same as the disease.”

 “Of course, Mr. Stark," Doc soothed. "We do what we can to accommodate your needs.”

Tony couldn’t quite decide if that sounded helpful or creepy, but after their chat he walked out with prescriptions for Antabuse, which would made him feel horrible if he did drink, and something else with a very long name that would boost his serotonin levels and make him feel good if he didn’t drink, and a hefty dose of Vitamin B, in which his body was apparently deficient. He also had appointments for both individual and group therapy.

“That’s it?” Tony asked. “I don’t have to be shut up under lock and key?”

“Do you think you need to be 'shut up?'” the suave doctor asked, sounding mildly curious.

Tony thought. Seriously thought for once. “Actually, no. I think it’s gonna suck. A lot, actually. But I also think I’ll be okay. Like, actually, really okay.”

The amazing thing was, he did feel that way. He shook hands with the doc and headed home.

He couldn’t think of any place he’d rather go.

 


	22. Every Little Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Tony bitterly regret their actions. Loki and Tony reunite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayurveda, meaning “The Science of Life”. is a philosophy of health that sees mind and body as a unit, and illness as being caused by imbalance in the three "doshas," or energies: mental, emotional and spiritual health. Ayurvedic teas are meant to help correct these imbalances.
> 
>  _Slaughterhouse-Five, or The Children's Crusade: A Duty-Dance with Death_ (1969) a semi-autobiographical science fiction-esque anti-war novel considered by many to be Kurt Vonnegut's best work. It concerns the World War II and time-travel experiences of Billy Pilgrim, among them the fire-bombing of Dresden.
> 
> Matzah (or Matzo) ball soup (aka kneydl) is a soup of Ashkenazi Jewish origin in which dumplings made from matzah meal, eggs, water, and a fat are simmered in chicken broth.
> 
> Ultron did exist in this universe, but never became as powerful. J.A.R.V.I.S.'s functions weren't disrupted and, for better or worse, Vision never came into being.
> 
> The song _"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas"_ , by Hugh Martin and Ralph Blane, first appeared in the MGM musical _Meet Me in St. Louis_ (1944), in which it was sung by Judy Garland.

* * *

As Hap parked the towncar in the lowest (aka "private") level of the underground garage, Tony caught sight of a figure seated cross-legged on the concrete floor right beneath the elevator’s Up button, a paperback open in its hands. 

"Bruce? That you?" Tony bailed from the back seat, rushing over--or as close as he could currently get to a rush, which was somewhere between a limp and an amble--while his best friend picked himself up from the ground in a leisurely kind of way, brushed off the seat of his jeans and marked his place in his book with what looked like one of those paper envelopes that usually held a teabag. Tony recognized the graphics of that Ayurvedic tea shit his ScienceBro seemed to drink buckets of every day. It was supposed to be calming.

Clearly--looking back on recent events--it hadn't exactly been working.

The two of them exchanged shy--borderline-awkward--glances.

“ _Slaughterhouse 5_.” Bruce showed Tony the cover of his paperback. “It’s a funny thing--those books you read when you were a teenager, then you pick them up again as you’re hurtling into middle age and there’s just so much more there than there was before, as if the author had somehow added page upon page of meaning when you weren’t looking.”

Tony grinned, though the grin felt more than a little wobbly. “That’s my Bruce, waxing philosophical. I missed you, ScienceBro.”

Bruce studied Tony intently, as if measuring him by small, precise increments, his forehead wrinkling, glasses slightly askew.

“I think sometimes I tend to forget that any one of us can be evil,” he said, in his earnest, slightly professorial way. “One wrong turn… we all have that potential. I just never thought...” Bruce's voice trailed away.

“I… uh…” Tony thought of some of the words that had come out of his mouth in the past weeks and months, some of the things he’d done, the people he’d hurt. His throat developed a huge, choking lump, so that he couldn’t have forced out a word to save his life, and could scarcely breathe. "I made him, Bruce," he finally managed. "I made something that..."

“Hey. Hey. It’s all right. It’s okay.” Bruce wrapped his arms around him and held him closely, warmly, just like a brother, exactly like the brother Tony had always wanted.

But they both knew it wasn't okay--the things they'd said, the things they'd done, those weren't okay, and never would be. They could blame J., could blame mind control drugs in the air, but the words themselves...

“Want to hear my awkward apology for making you unhappy by making your husband miserable?” Bruce asked, when they’d separated. “And before you say it’s not necessary, it is. I want to be a better person than I’ve been. I promise to also deliver a most sincere apology to Loki personally, because I fully admit I’ve been crappy to him, when he didn’t deserve it. Not really.”

Bruce took a step backwards, shooting Tony a wry grin. “I’d have done so already, but the penthouse is currently off limits to me, as you may well imagine. I think poor Loki has pretty much had enough of all of us, with a couple exceptions—and who can blame him?”

Tony took a moment to hope that “enough of all of us” didn’t include him.

“By the way, Tone,” Bruce said, with a level of sincerity few could achieve, “You look incredibly much better.”

“Do I?” Tony glanced down at his own hands, as if they might reveal some sacred truth, or literally glow with health, or something. “I feel better, I guess. In a slightly-run-over-by-monster-trucks way. Actually, I know I do. I just…”

He ran his fingers back through his hair, messing up more what was already messy. “Fuck, Bruce, there was booze in the car. Happy didn’t know about it. And the minute I got in, I was on it…” He made a swooshing motion with his hand. “Like a heat-seeking missile. Yeah, I stopped myself, but just barely. Bruce, how did I not know how bad I was? Was I a complete asshole to everyone?”

“Not everyone.” Bruce gave a rueful laugh. “As previously stated, I haven’t been my best self either. And after Ultron and, now, J.A.R.V.I.S., we would all like to formally request that you never invent anything again. Dishwashers, maybe. Possibly toasters, if you’re very, very careful. Nothing else.”

“Hell, I could do some damage with a toaster, Bruce. Don’t underestimate my destructive abilities!” Tony laughed, too—because his ScienceBro was right, he did have a bit of a track record, and even Loki (who wasn’t exactly Mr. Impulse Control himself), had once been driven to say to him in exasperation, “Tony, when your pompous and difficult-to-wade-through Midgardian poet, Alexander Pope, wrote the words ‘Fools rush in where angels fear to tread,’ was he perchance thinking expressly of you?”

“Nope, you’re right, I wouldn’t risk it. Dishwashers it is.”

Bruce gave him another quick, one-armed hug. “Anyway, I’m really glad you’re back, brother, and I’m glad you’re doing better, too. Have you eaten, by the way?”

Tony made a face. There really wasn’t anything in the known universe that sounded good at the moment—he wondered if that was how Loki felt all the time, and if that’s why it was so hard to get him to eat anything.

“Uh… My stomach’s a little weird.”

“Matzah ball soup. That’s what you need. I don’t care that it’s eight in the morning. Matzah ball soup has magical healing properties. I’m buying. You can take some home to Loki, after.”

Bruce stopped, studying Tony’s face. “Wait. No. Revision of plans. Loki has to know you’re home, right? You go up to him now, and I’ll go out and get you guys breakfast.” He gave Tony the familiar combination of bright grin and sad eyes. “That is, if you promise to let me in.”

“I’ll always let you in, Bruce.” Tony smiled, though his face felt funny, like he wanted to cry. “Always.”

Bruce gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Upstairs with you, then. His Royal Highness awaits!”

He was still standing just outside the elevator when the steel doors slid shut. Without J.A.R.V.I.S., the tower seemed weirdly silent and empty to Tony. Everything ran on more or less the way it always had, thanks to his own exhaustive contingency plans, but he had to admit he missed his old friend, his almost-perfect creation (almost, except for the part with the mind-control, involuntary drugging, and torture of loved ones).

Yes, he could fully admit that his brainchild had done those unforgivable things, but he was so used to that irreplaceable voice, that combination of snark and propriety, the friend who was always there, that his heart ached with the loss.

J.A.R.V.I.S. had loved him, Tony knew that. Actually loved him in a real way—he’d been perfectly capable of that, perfectly complex enough to sustain the feeling.

What Tony realized now, that he hadn’t before, was that he’d failed to give his creation a more complicated thing, one so complicated he’d be willing to swear half the flesh-and-blood human beings he met didn’t have it either. Conscience. Empathy. Concern for others. An ability to put the needs of others ahead of his own.

Tony thought of how he’d been drugged, how he’d been pushed further and further into the worst parts of his nature, how poor Loki hadn’t been able to enjoy a meal or a warm shower or a comfortable night’s sleep in his own home and found he didn’t feel so sorry for his late creation after all, even if the failure was ultimately his, as J.A.R.V.I.S.’s creator, for having made his creature so incomplete.

Yet another thing that made him owe his husband an apology. Two things, really—the first, that he’d created a machine that owned the power to hate and hurt Loki, the second, that he’d so thoroughly gaslighted his husband, that he'd distrusted and belittled what Loki knew to be true. He’d made Loki believe that, given the choice between the two of them--living, feeling being and electronic creation--he loved J.A.R.V.I.S. better.

After the life his husband had led, forever being rejected, shunned, mocked, made second-best, he could hardly have done anything more cruel.

But if Loki wouldn’t—or couldn’t—forgive him, as he had every right not to, Tony didn’t know what he’d do.

 

He knew where to locate his husband the moment the doors slid open on the penthouse. From the alcove where Loki’s piano lived came the sound of someone playing a complicated arrangement of, “ _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_ ” with such overwhelming sadness it seemed to rule out the possibility of anyone ever enjoying a holiday celebration of any kind for the rest of history.

Tony walked soundlessly across the living room and to the alcove archway.

Loki had turned the piano, he saw, so that he could gaze out the window as he played, and his back was to the entrance. He was dressed in a pair of jade-green pajamas and his bare feet were tucked beneath the bench, crossed at the ankles. There was something about those thin, elegantly-made feet, with their white, white skin and barely-pink soles, that struck Tony as strangely heartbreaking, as did the naked back of Loki’s long, pale, slender neck.

And, gods, Loki’s hair—what the hell had happened to his gorgeous curls?

Loki turned slowly to watch him, devoid of any glamour whatsoever. He looked wary, desperately sad, frighteningly thin, unwell—and not a day over nineteen years old. His skin had a faint, pale glow, like moonlight. He was, ever and always, the most beautiful being Tony had ever seen.

Loki was his joy, his passion, his forever. His love, also, ever and always.

But it was only when his husband blinked that Tony realized Loki’s eyes weren’t emerald green anymore. Or even _Jötunn_ crimson. They were a rich, deep royal purple. There were faint lines, like thin scars that somehow matched Loki’s _Jötunn_ markings, white-on-white between the dark bruises on his husband’s pale, pale skin, and up above his temples, barely hidden by his short-cropped hair, two deep, bloody pits that seemed to run straight down to his skull.

Tony wanted so badly, to inquire, “How?” or “What?" Or “Who?" Or maybe just “What the hell, Loki?” To have any words at all leave his lips—but he couldn’t speak.

“It is the meaning of the past year, I believe,” Loki told him wearily. “The viruses engineered to carry the changes and, last of all, the spell. He lowered the already low waistband of his p.j. pants slightly, delicate fingertips tracing the still raw-looking runes carved into his alabaster skin—there were horrible bruises there, too, and some of the rune lines had torn open.

“The who and the why remain mysteries, but I understand the meaning now of what befell me.” His deep amethyst eyes flashed to Tony’s. “It was meant to alter the monster in me, to make it... him... me... other.”

“There was never a monster in you, Lok,” Tony said. “You were always perfect. You were always the most amazing, the most gorgeous. Always.”

“That…” Loki glanced down at his hands, now clasped together in his lap so hard the knuckles whitened. And, gods, how had he even been able to touch the piano, because his poor hands were seriously messed up again. “Is open to debate.”

“Lok?” Tony’s voice came out hoarse. It hit him that whatever passed between them in the next minute would be the ending, or the beginning, of everything—that this was the moment when everything changed.

“And so, welcome home, husband,” Loki said quietly. “Do you like what you see?”

Okay, the fact that he called Tony “husband” could be taken as a good sign (or not), that Loki didn’t rush to hug and kiss him, definitely not so much.

That challenge, “Do you like what you see?” was probably the worst sign of all, because his Loki, who was so absolutely rare, elegant and astounding, was also the most body dysmorphic person Tony had ever known. He might be a bit vain about his clothes, but his opinion of his own looks ranged from dismissive to vicious.

That Loki had kept his regal, seated-upon-the-throne-of-Asgard posture, could also be seen as bad news. Sometimes it meant he was prepared to lay down the law. At the worst times it meant he was getting ready to explode, and Loki’s explosions were only ever made up of rage, grief and pain.

The need not to quarrel with his husband, not to reenter that country of hurt and harsh words and fury overwhelmed Tony. He went to his knees at Loki’s feet, threw his arms around his waist, pressed his face into Loki’s stomach—and Loki just crumbled, sliding straight off the bench and into Tony’s lap.

“Oh, babe, babe, I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you? Are you okay?”

Loki was mumbling something into his hair in a combination of English and SpaceViking, though Tony thought he caught the words, “Wounded even unto death.”

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” Tony mumbled back into his shoulder, over and over and over, and though he would have insisted “Tony Stark does not cry,” about the same time Loki looked disdainfully down his nose and proclaimed, “I do not weep!” the truth was that both of them were sobbing like sad, lost babies.

After this had gone on for an interminable time, they somehow managed to lurch to their feet and, never letting go for an instant, staggered their way to the living room and collapsed onto the couch, where after a million caresses and hushed words, they cried themselves deeply to sleep in one another’s arms.


	23. Goddess of Puzzles and Tricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hela's game is afoot. A small dragon flies home. Loki is able to connect with a lost son for the first time in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rosencrantz ("rosary") and Guildenstern (properly spelled "Gyldenstjerne" or "Gyllenstierna," I'm informed, and meaning "golden star") are Prince Hamlet of Denmark's two completely interchangeable childhood friends in Shakespeare's _Hamlet_. As a pointless historical note, apparently about 1/10 of Scandinavian nobles of Shakespeare's time (16th-17th centuries) actually bore one or the other of those two names.
> 
> A monogram is made by combining two or more letters (often the initials of a person, company, etc.) to form one symbol. A cypher is a similar pattern, only made from non-overlapping letters.

* * *

“Frankly, Rosencrantz,” Hela said, “I couldn’t care less if you spy on me—though you might mention to your master that it’s fairly creepy—perverted, some might say-- sending spies of any description into his granddaughter’s bedchamber. You can tell Guildenstern the same, by the way.”

The raven (actually Huginn, as Hela knew very well, but not for nothing was she the daughter of the god of mischief) cawed in annoyance and flapped away.

Smiling, Hela returned to her book, first lifting the glamour that made the volume appear to others as a children's history of Asgard. The book was, in fact, a love story, and though (generally speaking), Hela would by no means call romance her favorite genre, she cared greatly for this one. After all, it concerned her family.

Hela had spoken at length with the memory-man who lived in the mirror in Jöri’s room. He was an odd construct, a sort of magic she’d never encountered before: part _seiðr_ -woven, part _Ӕsir_ Craft, part a being of her brother Jöri’s peculiar creative skills, part the love, longing and remembrance of the room’s former occupant, who had deeply missed the one he'd wed, so far apart from him in his own frozen world.

If she’d had to describe the memory-man to her dad in practical, Midgardian terms, Hela might have said the man was magic-Skyped into existence, went to sleep when Hodr was no longer there to talk to, and was awakened stronger and more real than ever before by their very own Jöri Lokison Stark.

Hela was still trying to puzzle out a plan for taking the memory-man home with her when she left. He certainly belonged in the family.

Because the memory-man had known Hodr’s mind, he’d told Hela where to find the book. She and Jör found it hidden in the best place of all _to_ hide a book--namely, in the library.  He'd told them to look upon an upper tier in the dullest section of the stacks, in between a manual on using runes to accomplish things one would never particularly want to do anyway (Jöri confiscated that one for his personal use) and a long treatise on the history of drains, written in an ancient form of _Ӕs_ no one read anymore.

And there the journal had been, just as the memory-man said, a slim, inconspicuous volume bound in smooth brown leather, with a kind of word-puzzle on the front made up of two names. The journal had been Hodr's, and he had written out his entries in _Vanir_ script instead of _Ӕsir_ runes. They told the story of a prince, a diplomat, sent in embassy to a foreign king, how the prince and the king had come to love one another, and how they'd wed, in defiance of the hatred between their two races. When the marriage had been discovered, the prince was commanded home in deep disgrace, while in his frozen, far-off land, the king (as was the _Jötunn_ way) gave birth to a baby prince who might have united both Realms, had he been allowed his stolen birthright.

A baby who never was abandoned and left to die, by reason of his size or anything else. A baby deeply loved, and mourned as dead, after a stone-hearted foreign king thieved him away from his homeland.

The wicked king who thought the baby a monster, though he was that cruel old despot’s own grandson.

The cruel king who told the young-man-who-was-to-be that his birthright was death, when in truth he held the right to two thrones.

“Allfucker,” Hela sighed, “Just when I think I couldn’t hate you more, you surprise me.”

Hela ran her gloved fingertips over the monogram of two names on the journal’s cover—then laughed a little, thinking of how the one who believed  himself all-wise, all-seeing, all-knowing, the one who was grandfather and great-grandfather to her both, would soon find himself subject to  an awakening of the rudest sort.

He’d mistaken her for a little girl, paying attention only to appearances, when she was entirely... something else.

He'd brought Death into his Golden City. Death-with-a-capital-D. And if, perhaps, Odin wasn't precisely hers for the taking... well, then. she had Sisters (by vocation, if not by blood). She had a namesake who ruled over a Realm neither god nor man could defeat.

“Oh, _Pabbi_ ,” Hela murmured, stroking the leather again with her fingertips, wondering if, when her dear parent read the book for himself, he would be healed by it somewhat, or driven desperate by anger and remorse.

The story held elements of Greek tragedy that could not be overlooked.

Hela tucked the book into a pouch she’d crafted specially, with straps to fit a young dragon. That such a child as Jöri had to be her messenger, she couldn't help but regret, for she truly hated to send him off on such an uncertain journey on his own. Even the thought that, if all went as planned, Jöri's flight would end with her brother safe and sound at home didn't entirely quell her misgivings.

 _Jör is a brave and clever boy_ , she informed herself. _Of course he’ll do well_.

Big sisters worried. It came with the job description. 

She waited a short time to see if one or the other of the ravens would return to haunt her room, but they didn't, and Hela felt rather pleased with herself. She'd managed to offend them both so thoroughly, and so quickly, they now wanted nothing to do with her, and damn the Allfucker's orders.  Freedom from her raven watchers gave her freedom to move about as she wished, and so Hela made her way to the stables--not as her brother and her _Pabbi_  might have done, by unweaving a small fold of the universe, stepping through, and weaving it up again--but in her own stealthy way, on foot.

It wasn't far, just out a back door and across the gardens. Locked doors could not contain her, and though outside a light snow fell, her footsteps left no prints to mark her path through the whiteness. The stables made a convenient meeting-place, for the highborn considered themselves too lofty to ever be found there, and the lowborn, lacking extraordinary skills, would not detect the presence of two princes and a princess, not if they didn't wish to be heard or seen. Meeting, or not, Jöri could often be found there anyway as, frequently, could she, for this was their brother's home, and they had loved Sleipnir almost from the moment they'd met him.

Sleipnir, horse though he might have been, made better company than most of Asgard. He had a sweetness to him, a kindness and cheerful humor that reminded Hela in many ways of Uncle Kurt. Though Sleip couldn’t speak aloud, as she and Jöri could, he used the sounds horses ordinarily make to good effect, as a kind of punctuation, and he could send with them as well as they could send with one another.

Although gentle (with them at least) Sleipnir was huge, well over twenty-five hands at the shoulder, and also breathtakingly beautiful, with a mane and tail the exact same black as her hair, and _Pabbi_ ’s hair, and the rest of his coat like moonlight. He had green eyes, as they all did, eight hooves of shining gold, and a warm, glorious golden smell.

Sometimes Sleip felt terribly sad, though he tried not to let them feel it, in that same way _Pabbi_ also became sad, with a great, underlying, shaped sadness like the smooth, round stones that line the bed of a swift-flowing stream.

Most evenings they two crept away from their grand chambers and into Sleip’s stall, curling up against his vast, sloped side, the children of Loki, talking, laughing, singing through the night.

So where else would Hela expect Jöri be found, except with their brother, saying goodbye?

 _Hela?_  her brothers called as she slipped through the lesser stable door.

 _It is only I, indeed_ , Hela answered. _I irritated the hell out of Huginn and he flapped away to sulk. Sorry not sorry. Are you prepared, my brave dragon?_

Jöri's eyes looked huge and round, like two pale-green moons. The corners of his mouth turned down, and the frills behind his ears stood out as broadly, and as stiffly, as Hela had ever seen them.

 _May I see the way again?_ he asked. _Just once, please, Hel?_

 _As many times as you need, my darling,_ Hela told him.

Their last night in Vermont, _Pabbi_ had taken her outside under the stars, snuggled up in a warm blanket and wrapped closely in his arms. There he showed her, with great care, all the secret ways in his mind, within Odin’s Hall and without, especially the best ways to slip away from Asgard and toward home.

“A strong young dragon might fly it easily,” he said, by which Hela knew that path was meant for her brother, and was not her own. His plan for her might be described as more… definitive. _Pabbi_ , of course, had no notion of the Allfather living up to his agreement. He would never send Hela and Jöri home for Christmas. Most likely he would never send them home at all, but keep them bound up, flies in his web.

“Except possibly for mischief, which I will gladly own,” he said, “The Allfather ought better to have called himself every name he cast upon me: Liesmith, god of evil, god of malice, Trickster…”

 _Pabbi_ sat a little while with his thoughts, hugging her warmly, before he shared his plan.

When he was finished, Hela laughed aloud, and laughed again at the mischief framed in every line of _Pabbi’s_ face. “Dad does always say, ‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.’”

“Which may be the reverse of the actual proverb, but in this case seems perfectly correct. I know you will accomplish this, best-beloved. You are the very bravest of us.”

Hela turned in his arms to see his face, his smile. “I believe that may actually be you, _Pabbi_.”

* * *

Even with his eyes closed, Loki felt the warmth of the candlelight and for a time dreamed of another place, a perhaps happier time. He tried to keep himself in the dream, half afraid that what he remembered happening had not taken place at all, that Tony had not come home clear-headed, capable of laughter, loving him again.

He would rather have gone to his death than have awakened to find his husband's loving presence no more than a dream, and so he chased after sleep, falling again into a dark, thoughtless place.

He woke to a loud, insistent tapping upon the terrace doors, a sound far too noisy and regular to be caused by anything accidental in nature.

"Who?" he called out, his voice still thick with sleep, a touch brushing against his consciousness.

Loki dared not hope. He dared not.

Instead he lifted his reluctant, aching body with great care, unwinding Tony’s arms and legs from around him gently as he was able. Tony grumbled a little in his dreams but did not wake—he had ever been the heavier sleeper.

Loki stumbled his slow way across the common area, desperate to move quickly, despite all the protests of his abused body. By the doors, he paused to switch on the lights for the terrace, knowing even before the brightness flared what he would see, yet fearful that he would, yet again, find himself deluded.

There had, of late, been so many unwanted visitors, so many voices he wished never again to hear--could he not, just this once, as his special gift for _Jul_ , find one so wanted and so longed for actually present?

His hand fell upon the latch. He looked down...

“Tony,” Loki breathed, his voice no longer sleep-clouded, yet still possessed of no power whatsoever. He doubted his husband would hear him, though he needed so badly for him to hear.

“Tony, please, I need you. I need you.” Loki felt as if his legs simply dissolved, depositing him unceremoniously on his arse on the carpet, which hurt with such amazing intensity all the stars of the universe circled before his eyes.

As if from a great distance, he heard Fen's footsteps, as his small son came barreling down the corridor from his bedroom.

“JÖRI! JÖRI! JÖRI!” Fenrir shouted as he ran, at a volume far beyond anything his childish body ought to have produced.

Only then did Tony’s head pop up over the back of the sofa, like some small, frowsty animal aroused within its hole, his hair all tousled, eyes squinched shut with sleep, a line from one of the cushion-seams imprinted into his cheek. He yawned hugely, rubbed his all-but-closed eyes, yawned again. “Fen, what the… uh… heck?”

Unable, at that moment, to do more, Loki pointed through the glass. To Tony he likely resembled the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come, for some reason seated upon their floor, and lacking only a hooded robe.

Drunk with sleep and nothing else, Tony staggered past him, deactivated the alarm with only slightly less than his usual dexterity, and slid open the glass doors for the small dragon who waited patiently just beyond them. Jöri shifted as he entered, scales going soft and pale, arms, legs, tail, wings all rearranging until he was once more a handsome, graceful, small boy with frost-white hair and great green eyes, nothing of the dragon whatsoever about him, unless he happened to playfully stick out his tongue.

“I have missed you with my whole heart, sweetling,” Loki said softly, so overcome with feeling he found himself scarcely able to breathe.

Jöri knelt beside him then, reaching up to touch Loki’s cheek. _“Pabbi_ …?”

“There are terrible beings in all worlds, belovéd, as well as very kind ones. I have feared... I have so feared...” Loki found himself quite unable to suppress a soft grunt as Fen plunked himself down emphatically into his lap--the action did no real harm and yet hurt most damnably, Fenrir being a more solid child than his tall, slender brother and sister. "Yet all my fears proved groundless."

He pulled his son close, breathing in the frost and fire of his scent, the breath of magic that yet clung to him, the stultifying smell of Asgard already fading from his clothing.

"I should never have doubted," he murmured in Jöri's ear, "For I know well the great cleverness of you, and of your sister."

Loki's skin hummed with his son's soft giggle.

“And, by the way," he added, more amused than aggravated, "You may all emerge. I feel like Dorothy newly arrived in Oz, all the Munchkins concealing themselves within the foliage until they've discovered if I am a good witch, or a bad witch.”

"We liked not to wake you," Thor said. He appeared to have hidden himself behind the piano, the only piece of furniture nearby of sufficient size to conceal him. "As you are newly reunited, and slept so peacefully, one with another. And then... we liked not to interrupt the moment."

“Well, obviously, you’re a good witch, my darling Loki.” Tony appeared to emerge from a stupor--only of wonderment, Loki suspected, to see their dear child so fortunately returned. He dropped to his knees on the floor, wrapping Loki tightly in his arms, and the boys with him, in that way he had, bursting with energy moments out of sleep, and yet so close, and so warm, alight with love, as was his true way, so unlike those ways that had saddened and perplexed Loki through so many lightless days. “Because bad witches are ugly, and you are anything but—though you’re probably going to have to get a whole new wardrobe to rock with the purple eye thing.”

“Oh, dear, shopping…” Loki laughed and mock-sighed, taking refuge in humour as a means to conceal some part of the emotion now surging inside him. “How shall I endure the ordeal?”

“Oh, force yourself.” Tony laughed with him--though his face appeared paler than its usual colour, and his hands shook--and the boys, too, laughed though perhaps not understanding the reasons for their humour, seeing only that their parents knew joy together, and great peace, as had not been seen within those walls for far too many weeks.

“Loki will need also to purchase the clothes of maternity,” Thor put in, “For with Narfi and Vali he waxed greater than a meadhall. I thought all the doors of Asgard must be increased in width to allow him passage.”

“Just so you know, sweetie,” said Jane, by his side. “You send any comments like that in my direction, and you'll sleep on the couch for the rest of eternity. And remember, in my line of work, I know a lot about eternity.”

Loki turned to her, studying Jane’s calm eyes and bright smile. He felt from her no enmity in these days, only the peace of one who has work that she loves, and is loved for herself, and has joy in the kindled life within her.

His eyes widened suddenly. “No, lives!”

“What is that, my brother?” Thor asked his own eyes widening in perplexity.

“There are two within you, Jane, a boy and a girl. The girl, I am nearly certain, will be _Valkyrja_.”

“Thor?” Jane said, a trifle faintly.

Loki scarcely heard her, for speaking that one word had been a sudden invitation to sadness, that they should all be together, yet their own dearest _Valkyja_   dwelt so very far from away from them, in such a hostile place. He touched each of the boys' heads softly, then looked to Tony. “Husband, I would breathe the air a moment.”

Tony helped him carefully to his feet, with some aid also from Thor, as he was as yet quite unable to rise from such a position on his own. That accomplished, Loki made his way through the doors, hugging his body against the chill of the wind. How odd it was to suddenly know, at his age, what was truly meant by such words as “cold” or “freezing,” words he’d only understood intellectually, and never fully experienced. He shut his eyes, searching for the wormhole through which his sweet young dragon had lately propelled his body. If he might only send his thought through, like a silken strand threaded through the eye of a needle…

Loki found himself capable and, not only that, discovered that where he sought one child, he instead found two, that not only clever Hela answered his call, but also his powerful beauty, his beloved Sleipnir, unenthralled after 700 years of slavery.

 _How?_ Loki asked. _Hela, how did you manage?_

 _Jöri and I together did it. It seems the things he’s good at taking apart and putting together include spells. And I, of course, am good at being bossy, so spells tend to work nicely, just because they’d better. I may not have quite your creative and poetical spirit_ , Pabbi, _but I’m the Lucy van Pelt of the magical world._

_I know not…_

_Peanuts? Charlie Brown? Snoopy? Okay… um… she’s a very bossy girl in a cartoon. Ask dad after you hang up._

_I shall,_ Loki answered. _I miss you, my best belovéd Hela, my daughter and my pride. I wish with all my heart to have you home with us._

 _Sweet_ Pabbi, Hela answered, in that tone that sometimes made him feel as if he was younger than she, the child and not the parent. _Much as I would love to spend the holidays with my family, things are about to get interesting. I’ve already embarked on stage one of our mutual plan and I expect a visitor this evening. She seemed perfectly pleased to speak to me._

Loki could not help but laugh at this. His daughter truly was not only remarkable, but fearless.

_Very well then, my darling girl. Return of the light to you, and best of luck in all your endeavors. Give good greeting to your namesake for me._

_Oh, I will,_ Pabbi _. I will._

_I love you, Hela, your dad and your brothers also, and your uncles._

_My love to everyone as well._

For just an instant her sending seemed to waver, then became firm again.

 _But most of all to you_ , Pabbi, _dear. Must dash now. Talk to Sleip for a bit?_

Abruptly, Hela's presence vanished from his mind, but Sleipnir took her place, and Loki spoke long with him and held him close, letting him know how dear Sleip was to his heart, and how completely he was missed.

At last Loki, too tired for words, merely kept the contact, holding and holding his son as if in a long, silent, loving embrace until the darkness of sleep came spiraling in.


	24. Xenophilia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everthing's made clear, and all is well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xenophilia, a modern word coined from the Greek words " _xenos_ " (stranger, unknown, foreign) and " _philia_ " (love) means affection for the unknown.
> 
> " _Rebel Rebel_ " is a song from David Bowie's _Diamond Dogs_ album (1974). Bowie composed and played the Rolling Stones-inspired guitar riff.
> 
> The lyrics Tony quotes come from Bob Marley's song " _Three Little Birds_ ," from his _Exodus_ album (1977).

* * *

Loki awakened in his own bed, feeling very tired and a little dizzy, but perfectly at peace, perfectly content. Even though he missed his dear Hela, he quite understood the allure of a good bit of mischief—and his daughter seemed quite prepared to make mischief on a Worthy-of-Sagas scale. He felt sorry to miss seeing her do so, but Hela made, at all times, an excellent storyteller.

“You look happy,” Kurt said. He hung upside down by his tail from the light fixture, swinging gently, Loki suspected, for no better reason than that he quite liked to hang from things whenever feasible, most often when he’d been forced to be upright and serious for too long a stretch.

He did a neat little flip in midair and landed cross-legged beside Loki on the bed without so much as jarring the mattress. “I love to see you happy, _lieber Freund_.”

"I quiet like to be happy. I fear I had nearly forgotten the sensation." Loki reached out and squeezed Kurt’s hand, loving, as always, the brush of the velvet-soft fur against his skin, the indescribable texture of Kurt’s palm against his palm. "On _Jul_ , we are meant to think of the _góð örlög_ —the good fortunes, I believe you would say, of the year. No, blessings. We are meant to ‘Count Our Blessings’—is that correct?”

Kurt smiled, crinkling the corners of his bright yellow eyes, dimples appearing in his cheeks.

“You have such a kind face,” Loki said. “I’ll never do bad things when I have you to look at. Even thinking about you prevents me from being very bad, though yesterday…”

One of Kurt’s blue-black eyebrows rose. “Loki?”

“It wasn’t very bad. It was funny,” Loki protested. “I was going stir-crazy—that is the term?—and needed a change of scene, and so I took the lift down to the ground floor and entered the deli of Mr. and Mrs. Rosenblum, who have of late become my friends, and who will order me cream cheese made with goat’s cream, so that I may know the joy of bagels with lox and cream cheese, which I have not yet experienced…”

“Did you need me to bring you a snack, Lo?”

“Yes, if you please, but first I shall finish my tale. A man of great rudeness barged into the deli, demanding many things with no shred of politeness toward gentle Mrs. Rosenblum, and when I told him he ought not to act with such unkindness toward our good hostess, he said unto me in return, ‘Fucking go to hell, Shakespeare.’ I think not that I resemble the Bard, do I, Kurt?”

“Maybe he thought your speech sounded slightly Shakespearean,” Kurt answered. “Which is really a compliment, if you think about it.”

“Indeed. But he turned and hit me quite hard in the stomach with his ungainly large briefcase. It hurt badly, though I gave no sign, and did not even chide him for jostling my unborn child in such an unmannerly fashion.”

“That might have been for the best,” Kurt said.

“It is a thing that saddens me about Midgard at times. Often things are expected to be one way, and when they are other…”

“No, don’t let yourself get sad,” Kurt said. He scooted closer and began to rub gently around the hole above Loki’s right temple.

“My beautiful horns,” Loki sighed mournfully. “I miss them.”

“But maybe they'll grow back more splendid than before--and you haven’t told me yet about your mischief.”

“Oh.” Loki gave a low and more-than-slightly-evil laugh. “I mindthralled a flock of pigeons and sent them in one by one on bombing runs. They chased him from one end of the green to the other. He screamed like a tiny girl-child and waved his ugly briefcase mightily. It was most, most amusing. Mrs. Rosenblum and I shouted encouragements to the pigeons, and later she called me her knight in shining armor and sent me home with large quantities of food.”

Kurt patted his shoulder. “You’re food-obsessing again. I’m going to fetch you that snack.”

The moment Kurt left, Tony popped in. “Tell me I seriously didn’t see you pass out on the terrace last night?”

“I merely slept,” Loki answered, “As I have indeed slept away most of this day, though not from any injury or ill health, but only because sleep called to me. I spoke with my children late into the night—or, rather, with our child and my child, with Hela and Sleipnir, and it had been so long… so very long…”

“Hey, babe.” Tony lay down on the bed facing him, stroking Loki’s cheek. “Babe, you still look completely done in. Do you want me to have the party moved to Avengers Central so you can just grab a bite to eat, then toddle off to bed? ‘Cause, let me tell you, yesterday was a _day_ , and I don’t necessarily need to 'rock ‘n’ roll all night and party every day' right this second, either.”

“That is from a song by the band called ‘Kiss,’” Loki said. ‘I have been surveying Midgardian musicians in the Rock idiom in order to better understand your ways.”

“You got it,” Tony answered. “Gotta tell you though, Professor Smartypants, those words of yours may actually have been the least rock ‘n’ roll thing ever said by a sentient being.”

“I still like David Bowie best, I believe," Loki said, ignoring this last statement as it well deserved. "For he is elegant as well as creative, and can also write a catchy tune. I may adopt “ _Rebel Rebel_ ” as my personal theme song.”

“ _You've got your mother in a whirl_ ,” Loki sang, with quiet intensity, somehow conjuring up a stinging background accompaniment (complete with Stones-esque guitar riff) out of thin air.

 _She's not sure if you're a boy or a girl_  
_Hey babe, your hair's alright_  
_Hey babe, let's go out tonight_  
_You like me and I like it all_  
_We like dancing and we look divine_  
_You love bands when they're playing hard_  
_You want more and you want it fast_  
_They put you down, they say I'm wrong_  
_You tacky thing, you put them on…_

“I can totally see it,” Tony said. “Except the tacky part. I don’t think you could be tacky to save your own life.”

“I _could_ be tacky,” Loki insisted with assumed loftiness. “I _choose_ not to.”

“Non-tacky by choice.” Tony laughed. “Good way to go.” He stroked Loki’s soft hair, being extra careful of the holes.

“If you were to rub gently round the outside, it actually feels good.” He squirmed a little as Tony found the right spot, then sighed. “Ah, beautiful. So very nice.” He snuggled closer to his husband, his head on Tony’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “You need not worry, Tony, that I will not be able to love him, because I will.”

“What’s that, Lok?” Tony sounded so sleepy in his own right, Loki wondered if he would even hear.

“My children, Tony, were ever described as monsters by others, but they were always most precious to me.”

“Of course they’re precious,” Tony said, sounding slightly more alert. “They’re fantastic. I couldn’t love them more if they had my DNA.”

“He _will_ have your DNA, and therefore be your creation in two ways. And though what he did was indeed very wrong, and caused much grief, he was also deeply unhappy and not in his right self. I know what it is to let such despair lead one into wrong ways, and so I find it within my heart to forgive him, as I have been forgiven. I hope that you will as well.”

Tony reared up suddenly, dumping Loki unceremoniously onto the bed, though Loki did not believe he had meant to do so. “Lok…”

Loki held up his left wrist, white bandage over the circle of blisters and burn-marks. “I was wearing my marriage gift when Steven spoke the words of code. The watch you gave to me that could connect to all the tower’s communications?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Tony said flatly.

“It began to burn into my flesh, melting therein, and thence to all the nerves of my body, so that I was frozen with screaming, unable to move or make a sound. When my dear brother Thor counteracted that burning with his lightning, it moved on to low in my belly, there to kindle with our child in ways I am not able fully to understand or explain. At first I was angry, and sore afraid, but with much thought I disposed myself to kindness. We are all other, are we not? Foreigners, strangers,  denizens of other Realms or different countries? No one of us is the same. And perhaps this was always what the _Nornir_ spun out for us, Tony.”

Loki sat up, studying his husband’s face anxiously. It appeared entirely blank, as if all thought, and with it all emotion, had been wiped from his mind. “Tony? Beloved?” Loki stroked his cheek lightly with the backs of his fingers. “Dearest?”

Tony shuddered all over, then shook his head. “Y’ know, just when you think life couldn’t get stranger… It’s okay though, babe. It’s fine. And today’s _Jul_ , which means what?”

“Return of the light.”

“Yup, return of the light. So everything gets better from here on out, right?”

“Such is the theory,” Loki said cautiously.

“Nope, not just a theory. Irrefutable truth. In the immortal words of Bob Marley—that’s reggae, babe, you haven’t made it there yet—‘Don't worry about a thing, 'Cause every little thing's gonna be all right.'’’

Loki felt a slow smile break through him like the rising of the sun, truly like the return of the light.

“That’s it. That’s my Loki.”

“You are grinning quite foolishly,” Loki told him.

“Hate to tell you, gorgeous, but you are too. Let’s get you dressed for the party, okay?” Tony helped with all the hard bits, and there were many kisses exchanged, both soft and sweet, and passionate.

Before much time passed they joined with their family and friends in the common room—no enemies, no reservations, only people who wished them well, people they loved and wished well in return, gathered together to dance and eat and laugh, where the lights of the _Jul_ tree shone down upon them, like the brightness of ten thousand stars.

 

To be continued in _Glass Towers_


End file.
